


ubiquitous

by ggggnashville



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bisexuality, F/M, John Watson POV, M/M, eventual John Watson/Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-10
Updated: 2015-08-01
Packaged: 2018-02-12 13:27:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 44,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2111604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ggggnashville/pseuds/ggggnashville
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time John Watson looks at a boy and feels his face flush, he breaks his bones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic has been posted for awhile, but has never really been polished properly. the lovely girlofthemirror has offered to beta this fic for me, and i am eternally grateful.

“Eat your food sweetheart, don’t play with it,” John’s mother cooed. She didn’t need to look up from her ritualistic morning paper, she always knew. John looked down at his biscuit floating in his tea cup, the chocolate sticking to the side of the cup. He ate the biscuit half-heartedly and then sat down next to his sister who’s eyes were glued to her new copy of Smash Hits.

 

“Harry, want to go outside?” John asked. Tree climbing was one of his favourite activities, the New Romantics were not precisely stimulating for the seven year old.

“Not now, I’m reading,” Harry replied.

John sighed, and made his way towards the back door. He closed the door, eyed his favourite tree and walked towards it with purpose. He put a small hand onto the bark, and then jumped up to grab a hold of a branch. He had scaled this tree many times, mostly alone. Harry staying indoors was nothing new or unpleasantbothersome[K3] . John liked to be alone anyway.

 

Once he had made it to the top of the tree, he settled down between two branches and looked at his surroundings. He could see every house on his road from here and as his eyes searched the lawns and picket fences, his eyes fell on a boy in his form, Marcus. Marcus lived two houses down and was barely older than John, though much taller. John watched the other boy from his perch, and felt his face warm. Marcus was lying in the grass, looking up at the sky. He reached his hand up, as if to touch a cloud and then slowly and gently brought the hand back down to his chest. John swallowed, and allowed his own hand to reach out. He lost his balance and as John fell down onto the grass he wondered why he had done it, reached out, wanted to touch.

Luckily, upon impact, no bones jutted out from any limbs. Though his right arm certainly did not work properly. John began to cry, and his mother came bolting out of the house, newspaper still in hand.

 

“What happened?” She asked, eyebrows furrowing together, hands grasping at the sides of John’s face.

“I fell,” John choked out through sobs.

“Oh I knew this would happen one of these days. Come on, let’s get you inside, we’re going to A & E.”

 

John’s mother lifted him in her arms and cradled his head. John kept his eyes shut, letting the salt water fall into his mouth and down his cheeks, face burning red all the while.

 

Later, after having his arm put in a cast and being fed chocolate, John heard his mother talking to his father in hushed tones.

“He never falls, what happened?” His father asked.

“I don’t know, I didn’t ask. He was so upset.”

 

The first time John Watson looks at a boy and feels his face flush, he breaks his bones.

__________

 

Harry isn’t much older than John but to a ten year old, thirteen seems light years away. Harry started talking about how every, single one of her friends was trying to get boy’s attention. But Harry didn’t try, she already had it. Her long blond hair and blue eyes made her impossible to miss. Boys would call the house and John would ask Harry “there’s a boy on the phone for you, what should I tell ‘im this time?” because John knew that Harry wouldn’t take any of their calls.

 

“Dunno, just make something up. Tell him I’m being punished and can’t use the telephone,” Harry would reply, rolling her eyes and barely looking up from her book. John would put the phone back to his ear and sigh.

 

If every girl Harry knew wanted boy’s attention, why wasn’t Harry trying? Why wasn’t Harry trying? _Why wasn’t she like everyone else?_

__________

 

It happened on a Tuesday when John was eleven. Susie Chapman’s delicate little hands shoved him hard onto the ground and, as John went toppling backwards, he pulled Susie down with him. His hands were on her elbows, and she was lying against his chest, angry and grinding her teeth.

 

“WATSON YOU’RE A GIT!” She screeched into his ears.

“I didn’t DO anything, you’re the git!” John said sternly back, his eyes never leaving hers for a moment, those stupid muddy brown eyes. Susie’s curls were falling into his mouth, and John moved his hands to get her hair out of his face when he suddenly felt the softness of it, and stopped moving his fingers. John stared up at Susie, who had the oddest look on her face.

“What?!” She growled.

John didn’t have an answer, but he kissed her cheek.

“Oh…” Susie trailed off. She then very suddenly picked herself up off of John, scrambled onto her feet, and swiftly turned away from him, walking quickly towards the swings, hands balled into fists at her sides. John felt his face go warm, and he laid his head back down on the grass, eyes closed, thinking about brown for the several more hours.

 

__________

 

Harry was caught with Cecelia three days after her fifteenth birthday. John hadn’t the slightest what had been happening at the time, he only understood after the fact. He had been doing his history homework, sharpening his pencil for the seventh time, when his mother had come into the kitchen and leaned against the counter.

 

“Do you know where your father is?” His mother had asked him, tight lipped, voice neutral, all the while knuckles white against the granite.

“I think he’s outside in the garden,” John had said, brushing pencil shavings off his paper, creating smudges across the words.

“Go and get him…please,” his mother said, closing her eyes, exhaling slowly.

“Okay” John said, and lifted himself from his chair, pushing the back door open.

His father had been sitting on a lawn chair and had looked up from his book and glass of red wine and smiled at John as he walked towards him.

 

“Yes, John?” his father had asked.

“Mum wants you, dunno what for. She’s in the kitchen.”

“Alright.”

They had gone inside together, and John had sat back down into his chair when his mother had looked at him sternly and said “Go to your room, John.”

“But I’m doing homework!” John protested.

“Do it in your room.”

John had never seen his mother’s face quite like this. He picked up his work and went down the hall to his bedroom, closing the door behind him. Somehow, he knew to close the door.

 

About three minutes passed, and that’s when he heard Harry’s shouting. She was crying, screaming, incoherent. Just outside his bedroom door John had heard the most pleading voice, it didn’t seem to be real.

“Please don’t take her from me,” Cecelia said. QuiteQuiet, tearful, but trying to be strong.

“You’re going home now. We’re taking you home. Harry, stay here,” John heard his father say through the door.

“Dad, PLEASE!” Harry had shrieked. She was silenced though it was obvious no one was listening to her.

 

That night, when John had decided it was safe to leave his room to use the loo, he found his sister curled up over the toilet, reeking of fermented fruit, lips stained red.

 

“Harry?” John had whispered. It was past midnight. Well past. Harry turned to look at John, her blond hair falling over her face, hiding it, hiding everything.

“I love her, I’m sorry,” Harry said, then coughed.

 

John never saw Cecelia after that.

 

__________

 

John finds himself thinking these things, and forcing them down, because all he can see is his sister’s red stained lips. He stops every thought of it in his tracks. _His mouth, his hair, his neck, his shoulders, his bare shoulders, the patch of freckles covering his left shoulder, his calves, his arms, the veins in his hands._ Red lips, red lips, red lips. He is only fifteen, but he knows.

 

__________

 

John met Amelia when he was seventeen. Her dark skin under his mouth made him nearly cry and when he kissed her he swore she killed him. She was an ethereal being, and he worshiped the ground she walked on. Every single time he said he loved her, he meant it. Even when he said it before he hung up the phone, even when he walked her to her car, even when he had already said it eight times that same day. He loved the way she kissed. The other girls he had kissed didn’t know how to kiss. He wanted to be good for her, so when he touched her for the first time he said “Tell me what you want. Tell me what’s good, what’s not, when I’m right, when I’m wrong.” John had never done any of this before, but he wanted to be good. And she did tell him. And he tasted her wet in his mouth, undone. She did the same for him. He loved her.

 

__________

 

John didn’t want to leave her, but he had to. He had done so well in school that he fancied himself a doctor, Doctor Watson. It had a nice ring to it. They both cried, and John thought that probably helped.

 

The same night that he went to university his boy in the next room , Evan invited him to a party. He was eighteen years old and after the goodbye he’d said today, John Watson imagined he could have a drink, or several. John had four beers and didn’t usually drink much and suddenly he was with Evan, walking back to their halls, holding his hand. He didn’t know why. He just was. It didn’t feel like a betrayal. They had gone running around, they had broken into a dormitory that wasn’t their own, and John had been laughing so hard, and it was four a.m.

 

When they got back to Evan’s room, Evan turned the key into the lock and nearly fell onto the floor as he pushed the door open. John laughed loudly, and Evan shushed him.

“We’ll get caught, shut up!” Evan hissed, his dark hair shaggy, falling into his face, needing to be cut, needing to be pushed away. They both sat down on the floor, leaning against opposite walls, and John began to think again. He imagined; _Brushing knuckles against his stubble, feeling how rough it is, feeling how coarse his thick hair is, his hands, long fingers, his gapped two front teeth, what else is in his mouth? What else has he got?_

Evan moved across the room to John’s corner, put a hand on his cheek. He bent down but. But. John moved away. He didn’t know what was happening, but he wouldn’t do that. Not to her.

“What is it?” Evan asked, and then a look of horror crossed his face. “Oh God, you don’t like men do you? Oh, God…”

“No! No it’s not…”

Not what? What was he not?

“No really it’s okay, I’m sorry,” Evan said.

“No, it’s that I’ve got someone.” replied John

Evan’s mouth made an ‘O’ and he sighed. “Who’s the lucky bloke then?”

“Her name is Amelia.”

“So you don’t like boys. Right, sorry. I’m a real wanker I just thought…”

“I didn’t say I…don’t like boys. I just said. I’ve got a girlfriend,” John replied. The words came out easily after several beers and adrenaline pumping, were coming out easy as this boy looked at him like he understood.

“Have you ever…kissed a boy?”

“No.”

“You want to, huh?”

“Yes,” he admitted. Eighteen years, and there it was.

“She doesn’t need to know, John. This isn’t about her…” Evan trailed off. John knew somehow that he was right, but also knew it would feel all wrong.

“No, no I can’t do that.”

“I…I’m tired. Goodnight, John,” Evan said. Evan smiled at him, took his hand away from John’s cheek, and curled into his own bed.”

John didn’t know why but as he left Evan’s room, he felt frustration rise in him. He felt trapped. And it continued.

__________

 

John felt it trying to fall asleep in room adjacent to Evan (only a plasterboard wall between their beds), he felt it in class, in the library, at the bottom of beer bottles. He sometimes felt in between his legs, his hand there. He felt it and he hated himself. He rightly hated himself. He was afraid to see her, see Amelia. How could he be afraid to see her?

__________

 

He felt trapped, he felt smothered, he felt confused, and he had no right to be with anyone. So he ended it. There was no explaining it to Amelia that was the worst of it. He couldn’t explain it because that would make it worse.

 

_It’s not you, it’s me,_ it’s bullshit.

 

He did kiss Evan, once. It was shockingly different than kissing a girl, alarmingly so. The face shape all different, the body underneath his so much sturdier. They didn’t do anything else though. Evan just said it was okay because John never had. Now you have, there you go.

He felt freer somehow, after that.


	2. Chapter 2

John had been watching him from over his tea, trying to shift his eyes, really. Not wanting to be obvious. But he always was, (at least he assumed) in the end. He wasn’t exactly awkward but he wasn’t exactly fond of people either. So, when he was fond…well…

This was a fellow med student. John had had him in class but doesn’t know his name. Didn’t even know if he liked men or women, people even. Yet, somehow the smile and his deep voice when he asked John what he wanted to order was comforting somehow. John smiled back over his tea mug. He can’t help watching the man, can’t help his eyes following. In all honesty, John Watson is embarrassed. 

John pulled his eyes away and tried to keep his face bland. When his food is brought, and when the man gives him a full, real smile he sort of feels like the wind has been knocked out of him.  
“You alright?” The man asked.  
“Yeah, fine,” John said, and does his best to laugh it off. _Desperate_ , he thought. _I’m desperate_. He hadn’t gotten much thinking done and he’s more confused than ever. Without knowing why he wrote down the phone number for his dormitory on the receipt along with his name. He doubted the man would even be interested in men, let alone himself—and yet. He liked the man’s dark hair and dark eyes, and even darker voice. The worst that could happen was that someone else besides his old roommate would _know_. So he left it. As John walked out he turned to see the window, expecting disgust to be apparent on the waiter’s face when he saw the receipt. But what was there was confusion, and then a lip bite.  
Three days later he got the call. 

__________

John almost forgot about it really; he got caught up with things easily. Being a third year med student graduating in another semester, it could be hard to keep up. So when he was told he had a phone call he didn’t think much of it.  
“Watson,” he said into the line, rubbing sleepily at his eye. Second all-nighter this week.  
“John? This is ah…George’s diner…waiter.”

John was suddenly much more alert, eyebrows furrowed together as he remembered the smile, dark hair falling into the eyes. John could almost feel a blush coming on. He’d called.

“Oh? Hi…how’re you?”  
“I’m fine. Ah, just thought I’d give it a go I guess. How’re you?”  
John laughed at that, it sounded familiar.  
“Fine. Very…very good. So did you want to grab a pint sometime or something?” John felt as though he were fumbling with his words. He also figured this couldn’t be much different than chatting up a girl. Or at least he was hoping.  
“Yeah, how’s tonight for you?”  
 _Not great_ , John thought. He hadn’t gotten much sleep the past few days. But then he thought, _fuck it_.  
“Yeah, ‘s good. What time are you free?”  
“Say nine?”  
“At the bar on sixth?”  
“Yeah. Yeah, alright. I’ll see you then.”  
“Good.”  
John was about to hang up, when he heard the laugh from the other end.  
“Oh and I’m Ellis, by the way.”  
“Ellis, right.”

 

__________

 

John got to the bar first, which of course made him feel exposed. He quickly ordered a pint, and tried very hard not to be nervous.  
 _What was I thinking what was I thinking what was I thinking_ played like a mantra in his head, overlapping any other thought. Because of this he downed half his pint much too quickly. He sighed heavily into his foam and ran a hand through his hair. He needed a trim. He hadn’t shaved in three days. Christ.  
“Hello,” said a voice. A deep, kind voice. John looked up from his pint and saw Ellis. He patted John twice on the back, a sort of rhythmic, easy gesture. John knew he probably looked all sorts of wound up. Ellis motioned for the bartender and ordered.  
“Alright?” Ellis asked, as he took a sip from his own large pint.  
“Fine, and yourself?”  
“Good. Though, you sure you’re fine? No offense, you look a bit…stressed.”  
John smiled and looked down.  
“Med student. Thinking about um…enlisting actually. Army doctor. And then you know, finals.”  
Ellis shared a knowing smile.  
“I know the feeling well. You know, I think I’ve had a class with you.”  
“I may have recognized you, at the diner,” John said.  
“Right. Well, and of course…enlisting. A bit of a hero complex on you?”  
John laughed again, gulped down some more beer, mind finally easing up.  
“Hardly I just…”  
“Why not risk it?”  
“Yeah…” John said quietly. “Yeah.”  
“Well you know, all that and,” Ellis paused, took a swig, then resumed, “All the nice girls like a sailor.”

__________ 

 

It didn’t take much, not really. Three pints and just a touch of the Watson charm John was so used to throwing around at random girls. Ellis ate it up, or he was drunk, or he was looking for a shag. John was surprised even at himself, the way he lost himself completely. Ellis’ mouth easily fell onto his own, biting, then getting slow and languid, gingerly yet firmly tracing his lips with his tongue. Ellis was a good kisser. John thought about the TA he’d been fucking semi-regularly for only a moment, thinking about how she wasn’t quite this nice with her hands. John had always assumed that if he’d finally ever gotten around to getting the courage to sleep with a man it’d be rushed, heated, and nothing at all like the very kind kisses Ellis was leaving on his neck, his chest, and trailing downward. Much too nice in fact. Much too nice indeed.

__________ 

It would have been easier, if they’d just been shagging. But John knew after the first night that it wasn’t. Ellis had put so much care into fucking him, of course he did that in every other aspect of his interactions with John. It did in fact, after a few weeks, turn into a relationship, though in John’s head he never allowed it to be called that. They were just fucking. Along with studying together, eating together, paying each other visits at work, going to parties together, spending nights together where they did not have sex, but would talk for hours and then fall asleep, holding each other. On one of these nights, John nearly began to cry, because he knew exactly what was happening and wanted no part in the matter, remembering his sisters ugly retching and her worsening drinking habits. 

__________ 

 

“You’re in love with me, aren’t you.”  
John looked up from his textbook, lungs and ribcages suddenly seeming much less important. Ellis hadn’t even framed it like a question. Just a fact of life, like the sky being blue and the grass being green and John Watson being in love with another man.  
“What?”  
“You know what. But you aren’t going to say it. It’s okay though. Like, I know you’re not going to introduce me to your parents or anything or…even say you’re my boyfriend, I know. But I do sort of wish you’d just say it.”

John eyed Ellis rather coldly. He licked his lips and then smirked. John felt angry and he wasn’t all that sure why. Ellis was right, about all of it. That’s probably why it stung so much.  
“Guess I should be going,” John said, grabbing his things. He walked out of the library, and didn’t turn around.

Later, while in the shower, John realized he wasn’t angry so much as disgusted, and very sad. He left himself cry in the shower for a bit, then dried off and went straight to sleep, without Ellis for the first time in over a month. 

__________ 

“I enlisted. I’m leaving in June.”  
“And you didn’t even tell me.”  
“Why would I need to tell you?”

Ellis punched him. It hurt. John supposed a lot of things would hurt in the coming months. John punched him back. They ended up kissing more than anything else and John finally let his fists fall down, and the cold feeling in his gut continued to get larger. 

“I love you, John. You can’t leave.”  
“It’s too late. I’m enlisted.”  
“Where are you going?” Ellis whispered, and though John’s eyes were closed he heard the loud sniff, felt the wet spot on his own cheek from where their faces touched.  
“I dunno.”  
“You’re going to get shot.”  
“No, I’m not.”  
“You’re fucking running from me. And from yourself, you bastard.”  
“I know.”  
“You’re a proper coward.”  
“I know.”

Ellis kissed him, then pushed him away, then left. That was the last time John saw him.

__________ 

The night before he left for Afghanistan John took the prettiest girl at the bar home with him and fucked her until she moaned his name into his pillows.  
No more men, too much trouble. And he liked women just as much. Through with men, the lot of them. Including himself.


	3. Chapter 3

At twenty six, John trained for everything. He entered residency training in India with Queen and Country alongside him. He was sent all over that country for five years.  
For two years, John forced most emotions down and instead opted for solely knowing that at any second he could die, and it wasn’t all that different from civilian life, only that disgusting thrill that the percentage was larger kept him intact.  
Every day ended with sand in his every crevice, between his toes, and in the already developing wrinkles in his eyes.  
His mother was sending him letters telling him Harry was adding spiced rum to her morning tea and that his father was falling ill. John chose to push it into the back of his mind; it wasn’t as if he could go home anyway.

 

__________ 

 

John didn’t want to do it. It was something he hadn’t done in a while, and frankly didn’t want to do here. This place where he felt useful and needed while not Ever Being Bored didn’t need to be stained of some memory of days past, days John often pretended didn’t happen for the sake of his surroundings. But one night he woke up right in the middle, between midnight and the Witching Hour, and he had been dreaming so intensely of someone who sort of looked like Ellis that it couldn’t be ignored. He started thinking about James Sholto, the first to bark orders at him—which he had surprisingly enjoyed—the first to verbally tear him down when he’d gotten no sleep and had gotten too cocky. He thought about how tall, how thin, how kind he had been (before the accident) and pulled himself out, and got it done in no time at all. The safest thing about it was that no one else would have known what he was thinking. The worst part was, John was the only one who’d know what he’d been thinking. 

 

__________ 

 

Sholto before the accident was impossible. John tried very hard not to look him in the eye often. He knew exactly how much trouble he’d be in if anything ever happened, which it never would in the first place, because this was James Sholto, John Watson’s Commanding Officer. Each time John was called into his Commanding Officer’s tent to speak with him he thought he’d actually die. Every time his Commanding Officer told him he’d done well John would look down, laugh a bit, say thank you. Entirely un-soldierly, not One Bit Soldier Like Thank You Very Much but he was never questioned about it, and he counted it a small miracle. 

During the first raid, John saved three lives, and lost one. With blood up to his elbows and a corpse on his operating table, John walked out of the tent and into the showers, turned on the water as cold as it would go, and sat down encased in tile with his entire uniform still on. Major Sholto had burst through the shower doors, much to John’s dismay, and had dragged him up by his wrists and had slapped him across the face. Not very hard, but hard enough.

“Are you my doctor or not?!” He asked, face calm yet eyes burning. 

John had nodded, and returned to the operating table and helped lift the body off, then buried it in sand. 

The next raid, John doesn’t lose anyone. Nor the one after. When he does lose one again he blinks, nods, straightens up, and buries another.  
__________ 

 

After, John starts to think of Sholto less as Sholto and more as James, and that probably isn’t right. Sometimes James calls him John instead of Watson but it’s only happened twice perhaps and can’t mean much, but the mutual respect is there and heavy and it would be rather nice, if John could just stop itching for something more. It’s not as if much has changed. But Sholto’s slap and John’s ability to take it for what it was (not just an order to be pulled together, a showing of all John was) left them both somewhat different. John couldn’t find the words for it despite how much he tried and somewhere in the back of him he thought it might be best if he didn’t find it. 

The others were beginning to question it, that was the main problem. It was downright hilarious that they were, because nothing was happening, and nothing could happen. No one came out and asked, no. They would just stare daggers at him when he’d leave the Major’s tent sometimes, or look down at the letters he was writing to his sister. Letters stating:

_John, I can’t wait for you to meet her. Clara is wonderful, she’s so kind, and she is so beautiful. You’ll love her I know you will._

Letters from his lesbian sister about her beautiful wife; funny.

But truthfully, the Major liked John because he was hardworking and a Very Good Doctor, from this liking they grew a mutual respect, and John’s attraction to him may not have gone away, but he let it reside next to his guilt about Ellis. He was good at repression. Very good in fact. 

__________ 

 

When Sholto is burned but alive, John is so surprised that he heaves up breakfast and water as sweat drips down his brow. He is told that Sholto has been taken straight to the proper medics, and that he doesn’t wish to be seen.  
Sod that.

John goes anyway, and is glad he does because although he can sense his Commander’s embarrassment, he also knows he needs a friend.  
“I was hoping you wouldn’t have to see me like this,” James says. His face is heavily bandaged. For the first and only time, he takes John’s pointer finger and grasps it with his hand, the same hand that back handed him in the showers so many months ago. John says nothing but grips him back. Then, feeling foolish and overly exposed, he takes his hand away and salutes Sholto, then leaves.  
There are rules in the military.  
Proper coward indeed. 

__________ 

 

It is very, very cold. Frigid, in fact, possibly hell as frozen over and that is where he is. There is a raw stinging in his shoulder though. John knows he has lost a fair amount of blood. He was standing up, not the first to stand up even, among probably twenty standing up, and then he was down. 

Alright, try not to die. Not dying would be a fairly good thing to do. Breathe slowly and wait, try to apply pressure…applying pressure is apparently not possible, because even breathing is hard.  
Waking up is even harder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a lot of this is probably very not accurate, and time is not really stated. sorry for the mess.


	4. Chapter 4

John met Clara just the once. She came with Harry to hospital to pick him up and help move him in to his new flat, the one he really couldn’t afford on an army pension. 

She was tall, with freckles, and had a laugh like bells. Harry and Clara settled him in nicely. They put the pots and pans in the shelf under the forks, knives, and spoons, and then Harry made his bed up while Clara put the kettle on. John could tell Harry was drunk the entire time.  
“She’s so funny, you know John? I’m sure you know. She’s just got something so big in her that she can’t get out most of the time. I can see it in you too,” Clara said, sipping her tea.  
“You’re not wrong,” John replied, “though I’m not sure about me.”  
Clara gives him a knowing smile, as if to say _I just picked you up from hospital, after you spent years in war. Of course there’s something hiding in there._

Clara left before Harry, saying she had to drop by on her mother. Harry took her place at John’s kitchen table and lit a cigarette, ashing into one of his new mugs. With one addiction, others will follow.  
“I have one last thing to give you,” Harry said, blowing smoke into the brand new flat. John knew he should have been annoyed by it, but he can’t bring himself to care about much.  
Harry rummaged through her purse, then pulled out a cellphone. “Here,” Harry said, “I know you don’t have one yet, and I want to keep in touch little brother.”  
John takes the phone from her and inspects.  
Engraved on the back: _To Harry, Xoxo, Clara._  
“I can’t take this, it’s a gift Harry. From your very charming, lovely wife. No, that’s alright. I’ll get myself a new one.”  
“For starters, you and I both know you can’t afford a nice phone, and for another thing, Clara and I are getting divorced. I don’t want it.” Harry flipped her long blond hair over her shoulder after another long drag of her cigarette. “Honestly, John. Please take it.” She has pleading eyes, and her hand holding her teacup is shaking. It would do no good to ask why they were getting divorced.  
“I’m so sorry, Harry. That’s a shame.”  
“It really is. But the world keeps turning.”  
John knows she’s in a great deal of pain, but won’t say. And he won’t ask because he isn’t very good at talking about these types of things. He looks again at the phone, and the engraving. What a fucking waste. 

__________

 

John does not sleep his first night in the flat. It seems too quiet, though he can hear the entire city moving around him, not stopping and not quiet at all. Sleeping doesn’t do him much good anyway anymore. He goes shopping the next day, and is almost confused by all of the produce just sitting out. He hasn’t seen this much fresh food in one place since India, and it’s been awhile. Ages. He ends up buying tea, a loaf of bread, some fruit, and then giving up and buying frozen meals because he knows he won’t cook at all. Somewhere deeper inside he knows he won’t eat either, but he has to pretend; even for himself. Limping around the store is just as embarrassing as he thought it would be. He’s thirty-five walking around with a cane, it’s ridiculous.  
That night, after not eating any of the groceries, and mostly staring blankly at his bedroom wall, he tucks his handgun into his top drawer. It will become a ritual every morning, to take out the gun, think about putting it in his mouth, and then not doing so, mainly because he’s worried that there might be something more…numb…if he does. Though he can’t imagine it. 

 

__________

 

A month and a half later, walking under another dreary London sky, he hears the three words he really doesn’t want to hear coming out of anyone’s mouth.  
“John, John Watson?”  
John does not want to talk to anyone he might know. He picks up the pace with his cane but it’s of no use. “John Watson?”  
He turns, straightening himself, trying to look somewhat dignified.  
He recognizes Stamford at once, though he’s grown around the middle.  
“Last time I heard you were over in Afghanistan getting shot at. What happened?”  
“I got shot,” John says simply. He gives Stamford one of those dry-hardly-trying smiles, because he is in fact, trying. Stamford convinces him to sit down. He finds himself listening to Stamford ramble about Harry helping, saying maybe he could share a flat.  
“Come on, who would want me for a flat mate?”  
Stamford laughs.  
“What?”  
“You’re the second person to say that to me today.”  
“And who was the first?”

 

__________

 

After some strong convincing, John finds himself standing in Bart’s hospital on the sixth floor, in a laboratory. It’s amusing, being in one, seeing the equipment, remembering university, remembering Ellis, and pushes the thought of him down.  
“Bit different from my day,” John says offhandedly.  
“Mike, could I borrow your phone?” A new voice asks. John looks up and sees the source, a man looking into a microscope.  
“Here, take mine.”  
John stands at the end of the lab counter, looking away from the man, whom he now realizes is rather tall and gangly, hair a dark mop yet sitting perfectly on his head, eyes sharp. John tries very hard not to think about the word that pops into his head when he looks the man straight in the face and does not succeed.  
 _Beautiful._  
“Afghanistan or Iraq?” The man asks. He talks quickly, spilling John’s life story onto the lab floor in front of them, and John doesn’t believe.  
“You told him about me,” John stammers, turning to Mike.  
“Not a word.”  
In the end, John is left standing in the middle of the room, dazed. He swallows hard.  
Sherlock Holmes. Right. 

__________

 

Not a day later, he’s off to investigate a murder. With Sherlock. Who is indeed too tall and too full of himself—rightfully so. Least, John thinks so. In the cab, he lays John’s life bare. Wounded in action, therapist, psycho-sematic limp, Harry’s drinking. Sherlock sees right through him, it’s as though he’s transparent, and it is…  
“Amazing.”  
“You really think so?” Sherlock asks, as if he doesn’t already know the answer.  
“Of course it was.”  
“That’s not what people normally say.”  
“And what do people normally say?”  
“Piss off.”

John turns away, smiles wide, and honestly, for the first time in a long time. His heart aches. God. 

 

__________

 

For the first time in ages, John actually feels useful, despite having to drag his leg across the hardwood floor. And, until Sherlock leaves him stranded and he has to hail a cab. But, still. He can’t even bring himself to be mad. Sherlock is quick, and rude, and nearly intolerably crass. But John sees there a reflection of himself. John doesn’t like people, never has, and that doesn’t seem subject to change. Sherlock is a lot, but he’s enjoying it. 

So he tries. After being told Sherlock doesn’t have friends, and after being interrogated by who he will later learn is Sherlock’s older brother, after getting back to 221B from the other side of London (quite annoying) he tries. He follows Sherlock down the road, breathing a soft curse on his way out. This is in fact the most fun he’s had in ages. So he tries. In the Italian restaurant. Sherlock seems to have helped everyone in London. Mrs. Hudson, Angelo. It’s a paradox and it’s a nice one.  
“I’m not his date,” John says. He doesn’t want to seem to eager, to scare him off. John doesn’t even know what he’s doing, he had told himself No Men over a decade ago. Yet here he was, looking at Sherlock across from him, who didn’t correct Angelo, and who was making him smile genuinely, something he didn’t think he’d be able to do again. He tries.  
“You don’t have a girlfriend then?”  
“Girlfriends, no not really my area,” Sherlock replies, not even looking at John.  
“Alright,” John says. At least he knows now he isn’t barking up the wrong tree entirely. “Do you have a boyfriend then?” He continues. “Which is fine.”  
“I know it’s fine.”  
Sherlock is looking at him now, face serious.  
“So have you got a boyfriend?”  
“No.”  
“Okay.” John should be embarrassed, he can feel himself smiling, he’s being so obvious. He laughs a bit, heart leaping. It’s been so long since he’s done this. A man, flirting. Trying. He’s nearly stammering. “You’re unattached, like me. Good.”  
That’s as far as he pushes. But he’s rejected anyway. It stings, probably more than it should. But it had been so long, and he was hoping. So he lies.  
“No…I’m not.”  
But he had been.

 

__________

 

“That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done.”  
“You invaded Afghanistan.”

He’s laughing, really laughing. And it’s all too much. He’s so happy he’s going to die. And there, his cane, being handed to him after he’d forgotten. The tightening of his chest when he looks to Sherlock, who is standing against the wall, beaming at him. God. 

 

__________

 

The man’s a junkie. Right. Well, previously. Another life. It doesn’t seem possible but the look he’s given says it all. Well. Right.

 

__________

 

By the time he’s made it to the building, he’s completely out of breathe, breathing quickly through his nose like the army trained him to do. He realizes, when he sees Sherlock through the window, that he’s in the wrong building. And Sherlock has the pill in his hands. _No, no, I’ve just met him._  
“SHERLOCK!”  
Without thinking much of it, he shoots the man. He knows he’ll make the shot, quite clean. He’s that good. He makes the shot, and then runs out of the room. To Sherlock. 

He watches him from across the police tape. When their eyes finally lock, John can’t help but smirk a little.  
“Good shot,” Sherlock tells him.  
“Yeah, must’ve been.”  
“Well you’d know.”

It really is brilliant. The way Sherlock is smiling at him like he’s impressed. They are cracking jokes about the fact that he’s just killed a man and nothing has ever been funnier. John hates the tightening of his chest, the way his heart is nearly fluttering, it really is indecent. And the way Sherlock asks “Dinner?” it’s almost as if he’s changed his mind. Maybe there is a chance hidden in there somewhere.  
“Starving.”

__________

 

They eat Dim Sum in a small Chinese restaurant and Sherlock tells him every detail of the rest of the case. John finds himself hanging on his every word. When he’s lying in his new bed, and finally falls asleep, his last thoughts of the day are not of war, or of Sholto’s burnt face, or his shoulder wound, or his cane, but of this strange and beautiful and crazed man playing the violin downstairs. John wonders if Sherlock knows he can hear him playing. The violin lulls him to sleep. He does not have night terrors and sleeps the whole night.


	5. Chapter 5

John learns about all of Sherlock’s abstract irrationalities quickly, unhappily, and without regret.  
John’s fourth night at Baker Street swings him into soldier mode, and it feels effortless.  
John awakes from his slumber slowly, for the first time in ages actually enjoying a bed. He rolls lazily onto his side and shoves his head into a pillow, when the smell of smoke enters his nose. He opens one eye, and then the other, taking a large sniff.  
Definitely smoke.

John bolts up in his bed, flings the covers off of his frame in a total disarray, and then stomps down the stairs and sees smoke. It doesn’t smell just like smoke anymore, it smells like some moldy food and smoke. Sherlock is stamping out flames with a small flannel.  
“What the hell are you doing?” John asks, but mostly sighs as he waves smoke away from his eyes, and coughs.  
Sherlock gets rid of the last of the flame, and coughs a bit himself.  
“Nothing just…experiment.”  
John wafts through more smoke and opens the windows in the living room, then walks into the kitchen, still sifting through smoke and mold smell.  
“Are those toes?” John asks. He stares at the plate on the table between Sherlock and himself and covers his nose. It is indeed toes.  
“Yes of course they’re toes.”  
One of Sherlock’s eyebrows is singed off (it won’t grow back fully for another two weeks), his mouth is slightly agape, eyes wide, and hair crazed. The flannel he was using is now thrown over his shoulder. The toes are burnt to a crisp. John looks at the clock.  
“It’s 3:42 AM, Sherlock,” John says, and coughs a bit.  
“Is it? Oh.”  
Suddenly John hears a faint whistling.  
“Ah, kettle’s boiled. Tea?” Sherlock asks.  
John sighs into his hands and sits down at the table.  
“It’s going to smell bloody awful in here for ages. God. But…” John looks at the clock again. It’s not as if he’s got anything on tomorrow, still looking for work. “Sure, I’ll take a cuppa.”

 

__________

 

Two weeks later, when John is finally employed, he wakes up at 2 in the morning to use the bathroom. When he turns on the light switch his heart clenches so quickly he gasps and he nearly falls backwards. Sherlock is in the tub, fully clothed, with no water. He has a piece of paper he’s writing on against the tile. When the light comes on his head turns sharply and he meets John’s gaze.  
“Hello,” Sherlock says, and continues furiously writing, his tongue on the side of his mouth in concentration.  
“What are you doing?”  
“Composing.”  
“In the dark?” John asks, his eyebrows furrowing together.  
“Apparently so,” Sherlock replies almost too quietly for John to hear.  
“Okay well I’ve got to piss so…” John trails off, and crosses arms in front of his chest.  
“Yes alright,” Sherlock says, not taking his eyes away from his paper.  
“So get out.”  
“Why?” Sherlock asks, and it’s genuine. He looks up from the paper with a clearly confused expression on his face. He looks manic, and he’s barefoot. For a moment, John wonders if Sherlock even knows where he is.  
“Because I can’t piss with you in here.”  
Sherlock continues to look confused, and doesn’t move.  
“Get. Out.” John can feel his soldier face falling over him. He must have done something properly because Sherlock sniffs, relieves his back from its hunched state and straightens, then stomps out of the bathroom passed John. John shuts the door behind him with a tidy thud. 

 

__________

 

It’s eleven in the morning and Sherlock has three nicotine patches on either arm, and he’s wringing his hands together like there’s something in between them he’s trying to crush: probably John’s patience. After a third failed date with Sarah thanks to his lovely flat mate, John is at this particular time, not fond of him. Sherlock is completely bored, and completely out of bullets (thank God). He’s already used a blow torch on one of John’s jumpers, destroyed all the hard boiled eggs by throwing them into the garbage disposal, and stabbed a foot to a pulp. He is now adding the sixth nicotine patch to his body, which is at least the fifth health hazard of the day.  
“No, no, take all of those off but one. Sherlock that’s not okay.”  
“NO!” Sherlock shrieks out, and John feels a headache developing.  
“You’re going to get a rash, or get dizzy and pass out, or throw up or all three, or, something WORSE. Take them off!”  
“You can’t make me,” Sherlock says, defying the trained war veteran with a sneer and a voice so childish it is nearly impossible to believe it’s coming from a thirty-three year old man.  
“Oh, my God,” John whispers to himself. He thinks about assaulting the fully grown five year old laying on the couch, but instead walks up to his bedroom and locks the door.

 

__________

 

John is sitting in his chair, drinking tea, reading a novel. It is quiet like it has not been in weeks, and it’s lovely. Sherlock is actually asleep in his bedroom. John had peaked in around nine in the morning and had watched the even breathing of his flat mate and smiled to himself, then closed the door and put the kettle on.  
It’s an hour later now, and Sherlock comes marching out of his bedroom in his blue robe, snatches John’s novel from his hands in a nearly violent way, tears out one of the pages, picks up a pen, and writes in big, bold letters across the page:

**PURPLE DOOR**

then tacks it to the wall where his current case is spread out. John has no idea what it means. He doesn’t ask either. 

 

__________

 

It’s one in the afternoon and they’ve just come back from a case. A case involving a dead father who conducted the orchestra at the Old Imperial Theatre, and a deranged motor cyclist which had very much left John out of breathe and up the whole night. They just reached Baker Street in the early afternoon after a mountain of paperwork.  
John is collapsed on the sofa, letting out a long sigh when he hears a faint buzz. He opens his eyes to find a small honey bee has landed on his open palm.  
“Well, what are you doing?” John asks the bee. He moves to put a hand over the bee to cup it between his hands.  
“No, DON’T!” shrieks Sherlock, who has put a hand out and whose eyes have blown up out of his skull. John clears his throat, and sits up, cupping the little insect. It makes a louder humming sound but doesn’t sting him.  
“We left the window open all night,” John says, and walks over and releases the bee out into the thrumming London below.  
Sherlock is panting, but his face is calmed. He blinks a few times.  
“Thank you,” Sherlock says.  
“What for?”  
Sherlock points to the window.  
“The bee?” John asks.  
Sherlock nods, then collapses onto the sofa, and for the first time (that John can tell) in three days falls asleep with his coat still on. John smiles, and as gently as possible takes the coat off of Sherlock and throws it onto his friend’s chair. John climbs the stairs to his own bed, knowing he’ll regret falling asleep at such an hour when he has work the next morning. 

 

__________

 

Despite all of the chaos that is living with Sherlock, and his growing irritation with not only Sherlock but himself being pulled in (cancelled dates, falling asleep at work, eating out far too often, not sleeping for days at a time (perhaps he’s becoming too much like his flat mate)), John can’t help but love it here. He loves the rush he gets when he’s dodging bullets, beating rapists over the head with the butt of his gun, or simply knowing that at any moment, Sherlock will be the cause of some immediate danger. But more than that—much more indeed—he enjoys Sherlock’s company. John has found a friend in London, and one whom he thinks actually understands him, that doesn’t mind when he doesn’t answer, and doesn’t question John when he wakes up from naps on the sofa screaming from a PTSD-fuelled dream. Only asks “Alright?” as John responds with a huffy “Yeah.”  
The man won’t leave the flat to go buy milk but he’ll order John’s favorite Indian dish without ever having asked what it was in the first place.  
John feels almost domestic at times, and loathes himself for it, because he can feel his heart being detached more and more and falling onto the floor in Sherlock’s direction. He tries to be angry like a normal person when Sherlock wakes him up to a flashlight directly in his eyes (not a nice way to wake up a war veteran Thank You Very Much) but isn’t, only laughs about it as he’s putting on his shoes. He also feels that he must be more than transparent in his feelings. If Sherlock could tell that his laptop password is “Von1950” (a collaboration of one of his favorite authors and his mother’s birth year (with no Kurt Vonnegut books in the house, mind you)) then he can surely tell that John is beginning to have feelings for him, in the way that he styles his hair or the dust on his shoes, or maybe the more obvious way in which John will place food in front of him after Sherlock has said he isn’t hungry or the way John watches Sherlock when he plays the violin. 

So, although Sherlock shouts out his High-Functioning-Sociopath excuse whenever he’s out of his depth with social interaction, John knows better. He is a doctor, after all. He knows the signs (Sherlock’s turning and fidgeting being obvious stimming) and Sherlock’s intense and quick annoyance with anyone less intelligent than him (taken as rude, but really just exhausting. The point of idle small-talk isn’t something that makes sense, no Sherlock, no one actually cares about the weather), and the way he keeps his friends because of the role they play (Lestrade for cases, Molly for the bodies, John can only imagine at what strange role he might play, most likely just there for rent). John knows these signs because he’s a trained doctor and did in fact have to take these courses at University. Neurodiversity isn’t uncommon, and neither is it uncommon that someone as brilliant and clever as Sherlock Holmes would end up somewhere on the autistic spectrum. High Functioning as he was, he was not at all a sociopath. It was an easy, make-shift wall he put up, and though the show was pretty good, John is not as stupid as Sherlock might think he is. 

John feels complicated and restless living with Sherlock Holmes. He loves it mightily, but also knows for a fact that these “dates” he’s continuing won’t last much longer, that he’s going to give up on them, and knows that despite his constant warnings to himself he’s already been swept up by the current and is heading into higher waters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeh, i fancy sherlock neurodiverse, they do say so in hounds anyway. and no one likes to mention it so, i figured i might as well.


	6. Chapter 6

Being kidnapped had not been how John imagined this going. Being kidnapped by Molly’s very possibly gay boyfriend was an even bigger twist. Realizing that Molly’s possibly gay boyfriend was in fact the bomber they had been looking for, well, that just took the cake.  
Jim from I.T. was giving John a wicked grin, and one that he did not much care for. 

“Hello, John Watson,” Moriarty says, eyes shining and wide.  
John doesn’t present him with an answer, just stares back, lips tight. He is unsure how to respond, so he defaults to silence.  
“Surprised to find me here?” Moriarty asks. “I just thought it’d be funny you know, to push his _buttons_. I don’t think he’ll be very happy to see you here…with all that Semtex….”  
“No, probably not,” John replies. He’s calm, steadied by the danger posing itself on him.  
“Well, we’ll find out soon, he’ll be here in fifteen minutes. Plenty of time to get to know each other I’d say.”  
Moriarty steps closer to John, then puts one palm very gently on John’s face, smiles with no teeth. John flinches to pull away, but then steadies himself, unsure of the consequences.  
“Oh please, I wouldn’t hurt you before he got here, that would ruin the fun. No, no…I’m trying to figure out why he likes you so,” Moriarty says, his voice low. He nods a bit. “I’m really not sure. You look ordinary to me. Are you hiding something from me Doctor Watson?”  
John does his best nonchalant face and shrugs.  
“I couldn’t tell you. I’m just his flat mate really,” John replies.  
“Nuh uh…you see, Johnny Boy… _I know something you don’t know_ ,” Moriarty sings, then giggles a bit. “He likes you. More than anyone else. And I know you like him too. He reminds you of Ellis, doesn’t he? Just a bit. The hair, I think.”  
John stops breathing. How could he possibly know about Ellis? God, what if he’d hurt him?  
“How…How do you know about Ellis?”  
“Silly! It wasn’t hard to find out! Just had to find out who you were friends with back in the day, one person leads to another. You had quite the past with him though, GOLLY! And he was, so fun to play with. I think he was still a little sweet on you, to be honest.”  
“Play with?”  
“Yeah! Yeah, yeah, I bought him a couple drinks, got him talking about his time with you. See, I’m your colleague at the hospital now, and it was so funny that we both knew you, what a coincidence you know? So he slipped up a bit you, right? And he told me how much he’d liked you, how he just wished you could have been a bit more open about all those feelings you had. So, after a couple drinks, I got his number. But don’t worry, I didn’t shag him or anything I’m not that naughty!” Moriarty laughs, and a very dark, cold feeling enters John’s gut. He wants to vomit very much but can’t. He settles for swallowing repeatedly.  
“Is he alive?” John manages.  
“Oh, of course he’s alive. I was very nice, I bought him drinks like I said! It was just so nice to meet him because he cleared up so much. I thought I was right about you and Ol’ Sherlock, but now I know I’m right.”  
“There isn’t anything going on like that,” John says, keeping his voice even.  
“Well maybe not right now…Oh, I think he’s here. Better get your acting warmed up. Now, here’s this,” Moriarty says, and puts the earpiece in place. “You’ll be able to hear me now. Just repeat everything I say, it’ll be lovely!”

__________

 

John sees the moment when Sherlock thinks it’s him, that John is the bomber, and it breaks his heart. Sherlock is stopped dead, so confused.  
“Evening,” Moriarty begins, as does John. “This is a turn up, isn’t it Sherlock?”  
“John…what the hell?” It hurts, it really does.  
“Bet you never saw this coming. What would you like me to make him say next?”  
John reveals his bomb strapped chest.  
“I gave you my number! Thought you might call,” Moriarty says from behind John. 

John listens to them talking, and has to wonder if Sherlock enjoys it. Moriarty is flirting, he’s said so himself, and it’s so strange to hear someone so forward with Sherlock, anyone besides Mycroft anyway. It strangely makes John’s heart twist, all of it, and he can feel himself shaking his head, shutting his eyes. _Make it go away_.  
John’s embarrassed somehow.  
“Are you okay?” Sherlock asks.  
“You can talk, Johnny Boy, go on.”  
John nods, not trusting his voice just yet. Then, he sees his opportunity.  
“Sherlock, run!” John says, throwing his arms around Moriarty. He doesn’t really mind dying here anyway. He’d rather Sherlock get out at least, and he’s only happy to help him get out. He knows exactly why too.  
 _You’re in love with him, you fucking idiot_.  
“Isn’t he sweet, I can see why you like having him around, but then, people are so sentimental about their pets.”  
John doesn’t care really, doesn’t mind the comparison. He’d just like for Sherlock to live.  
“You’ve rather shown your hand there, Doctor Watson.”  
He knows he’s done now, even if they do get out of here alive, Sherlock will know now. But that’s okay seeing as he’ll probably be dead soon. 

“I will burn the heart out of you.”  
“I’ve been reliably informed I don’t have one.”  
“But we both know that’s not quite true.”

John can feel himself being displayed, laid out completely and it is intensely uncomfortable, more so than getting shot. He wants nothing more than for Jim Moriarty to shut up, please, God, so that he can let Sherlock know, but on his own. Done the right way. He so wants to do things the right way, this time, for him.  
Finally, he leaves, and Sherlock drops his façade of calmness and the look of horror on his face really does surprise John, at least a bit. He cares for him, possibly more than he had thought. Hope swells over just about everything.  
Sherlock rips off the Semtex with such vigor, and John finally collapses into a heap. Sherlock is crazed, blinking rapidly, eyes wide and pacing.  
“Are you okay?”  
“Me, yeah, yeah I’m fine, fine. That thing that you um, that you offered to do that was, good.”  
It’s funny, because he’d do it again. Over and over. 

When Moriarty comes back, Sherlock gives him a look. And John knows, and he nods. _Yes, of course I’ll die here next to you. I can’t think of a better way to die than next to you_.

__________

 

When they get home, it’s hard for John to concentrate on much of anything, besides staring at Sherlock, the only way to tell he’s there, alive, breathing.  
Sherlock is playing his violin, a soft, melancholy, and somewhat desperate tune that is hurting John to hear. It seems that all he feels is this dull ache in his chest recently. He’s never wanted anyone so badly before. But Sherlock makes no indication, only holds his bow in his hands delicately as he plays, eyes closed. John wants to say something. Anything.  
 _He wasn’t wrong, I did show my hand. I think that I’m in love with you. Please say something._  
 _You are so beautiful, I’d be content just kissing your hands._  
 _I know I’m not as intelligent as you, but I am smart and I could make you come, I’m very good at it I promise_.  
 _We agreed to die together, maybe we should discuss that._

But he says nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> see, like, i AM planning to finish this okay i'm really sorry i'm so slow, but i really do plan to finish it i have a big plan for it i have each chapter mapped out omg believe in me!!!! (i'm so sorry!!!)


	7. Chapter 7

John never knew ashtrays could be romantic.   
The nearly giggle-like laughter came out too quickly, and he would have been embarrassed if he had bothered to care.  
John shakes his head at himself, pondering himself and the way his hand had come up to his mouth; he almost feels innocent. In a way, he is dying next to Sherlock, just very slowly, very softly. 

__________

 

When a rather sharply beautiful woman is naked in front of one, one is usually pleased with the recent turn of events. 

John stares at Irene Adler, and the way she makes eyes at Sherlock, and his stomach turns over. He quickly learns that she is smart, and cunning, and somewhat impish. She leaves out a window in nothing but Sherlock’s coat.  
John has a fleeting moment of wondering what that coat would feel like against his own bare skin, and then kneels down next to Sherlock to check his pulse. Sherlock is passed out, but his breathing is normal. John gets him home with the help of Lestrade.  
As John carries Sherlock up 221’s stairs, one of Sherlock’s feet gets stuck and he begins to drag. They stop there on the steps, and sit down. John, to catch his breath, Sherlock to continue sleeping.  
“Sherlock, we have to get you up to bed,” John says.  
“John, I stole the ashtray for you.”  
Sherlock looks so small as he says this, barely keeping his eyes open, his mouth hanging open after he speaks, as if he’s going to say something else. He looks at John as if expecting something.  
John smiles at this, the drugged ramblings of a genius almost sweet.  
“I know.”  
“No, you don’t, you don’t know.”  
“Alright, sure. I don’t know,” John replies. “But come on, up.”  
John pulls Sherlock’s arm over him, and gets him to bed more by throwing him than really placing him down. He puts a hand on his shoulder, as if he just could not resist, and then heads for the door.  
“I’ll be here if you need me.”  
“Why would I need you?” Sherlock grumbles from his pillows.  
“No reason,” John sighs, then closes the door behind him.  
John stands outside the door for a moment. He closes his eyes and imagines crawling into bed with him, and falling asleep with him, their breath turning slow together. He imagines gently playing with Sherlock’s hair as he sleeps, just watching him. He goes upstairs.  
 _I stole the ashtray for you._

 

__________

 

The texts begin, her soft moan telling John that once again, she is there, invading. He becomes obsessive, counting the texts each time he hears the phone. He is so jealous, because this woman takes what she wants and is unafraid. John thinks she will take Sherlock too, if she so chooses. It’s hateful, really.   
John never asks to read them, perhaps doesn’t want to know what she’s saying. Sherlock never replies, and John doesn’t know what that’s supposed to mean, coming from Sherlock. 

 

__________

 

Irene Adler dies on Christmas Eve. John stops dating on Christmas Eve.  
John has come to the conclusion that there really is no point in dating other people when he is so fiercely in love already; it would just be unfair to whoever he pursued. The only reason he had been dating was for shagging anyway, and even so, he wasn’t sure it was for any purpose, he was just going through the motions. 

Irene Adler dies on Christmas Eve. John destroys Sherlock’s sock index on Christmas Eve. Sherlock smoked a cigarette on Christmas Eve.   
Meaning: he cared for her. Had he wanted her? John could not be that. She had been wickedly beautiful, and had matched Sherlock’s mind. If Sherlock were to have wanted anyone, it would have been her. John knows he is being ridiculous. He needs to be there for Sherlock. He needs to talk to him if he wants to talk (he wouldn’t). Give him a drink, perhaps.   
John tried, when Sherlock came home.   
Sherlock went straight to bed.  
John sits up with his glass of scotch, and wonders if he should still give Sherlock the Christmas present.   
It is a new violin bow, and it had seemed a fairly innocent gift when picking it out, but now it felt too intimate, giving Sherlock something he would use so often, and so delicately.   
John picks the gift up from under the tree, stares down at the wrapping he tried to do nicely but still managed to cock up.   
He does not give him the bow.

 

__________

 

When John finds that Irene is in fact, not dead, he is angry. He imagines Sherlock, composing sad music and sulking around the flat. He’s miserable, and John has hated every moment of it.   
“Tell him you’re alive.”  
“I can’t,” Irene says, and it’s insufferable.  
“Fine, then I’ll tell him.”

“What do I say?” she asks John. John despises her in this moment. He despises himself more.  
 _Tell him you love him.  
Tell him you’re so in love with him you want to die. Because you can. You could, if you wanted to. He wouldn’t be upset by that. _  
“What do you normally say?! You’ve texted him a lot!” John shouts, breathing through his nose, fists balled up.   
As Irene reads her texts, the ones John has wondered about for months, he feels his stomach turn inside out. The messages are not explicit love notes. They are somehow worse than that. Simple, short, yet she tells him what is on her mind. She is not troubled by the thought of his rejection. She showed him her body the first time they met. She was taken to him. Who wouldn’t be?   
“I’m not hungry, let’s have dinner.”  
“You. Flirted. With Sherlock Holmes.” John’s head falls to the side, partly out of anger, partly disbelief.  
“At him, he never replies.”  
“Sherlock always replies, he’s Mister Punch Line, he will outlive God trying to have the last word.”  
“Does that make me special?” She asks. Her eyes light up a bit. John knows this feeling with Sherlock: hope.  
 _I stole the ashtray for you._  
“I don’t know. Maybe.”  
“Jealous?”  
 _Yes,_ John thinks, but doesn’t say.  
“We’re not a couple.”  
“Yes you are.”

John wishes he could say yes, we are, in some small way, perhaps. But not that way. He wouldn’t want me that way. He may not want anyone that way. He doesn’t feel things that way. He feels, so much. But, not that way.   
“If anyone out there still cares, I’m not actually gay,” John tells her. It’s not a lie, but it’s not quite true either. He isn’t gay. But he’s also deeply in love with a man. He isn’t gay, that was always his cover. He likes women too, so, he’s not gay.  
“Well I am. Look at us both.”  
John mulls it over, and looks past her; he really should give her more credit.

John hears the text alert, and his heart somewhat shatters. Sherlock heard that.   
John wants to run to him, and begins to do so. Irene puts a hand up.  
“I don’t think so, do you?”  
John isn’t sure what she means at first.   
Years will go by before he knows what she means.  
Don’t go after him, let him come to you. 

 

When John gets home, he pours himself a drink, and he tries.   
“So she’s alive. How are we feeling about that?”  
John rocks back and forth on his heels, head down, heart pounding.  
What does he expect Sherlock to say?  
 _Wonderful, I’ve been in love with her._  
I don’t care, I’m in love with you.

“Happy New Years, John,” Sherlock says. Sherlock begins to play, and John sits down in his chair. Sherlock gives him a look from across his violin, and John doesn’t know what it means. John gets a little drunk in his chair, watching Sherlock play, watching his hands, and then his legs. Sherlock doesn’t seem to mind that he’s being watched. He likes the attention.   
Sherlock sits down next to him after a while, placing his violin next to the chair.  
“Thank you,” John says. He smiles at Sherlock, and Sherlock smiles back. It is so beautiful. John wonders what would happen if he made the small distance between them disappear. If he carefully placed a hand on Sherlock’s cheek (to ask: is this okay?), and dipped his head down to kiss him, softly, leaving plenty of room to be pushed away. 

 

__________

 

John wakes up on a Wednesday morning and decides that today, he will tell Sherlock he is in love with him. If he is denied, he will go on pretending it never happened, and he will be okay. He won’t even mind, as long as he can stay with Sherlock. He can survive the heartbreak, as long as he can still watch Sherlock every day. John goes to buy groceries, and picks up a bottle of wine there as well.   
When he gets back it has just turned five o’clock. He walks to Sherlock, to show him the bottle, to invite him to sit down with him. When he makes it to Sherlock’s bedroom however, he is disappointed.  
“Oh,” John says, eyeing Irene Adler, asleep and freshly showered.   
John stands next to Sherlock, unsure of what to do for several minutes, still clutching the bottle of wine.

 

Sherlock solves her case so quickly, it’s remarkable really, and under different circumstances John would have been impressed. Sherlock is showing off for her.  
“I would have you here until you begged for mercy twice.”  
“I never beg.”  
“Twice.”

John watches them, and feels faintly ill.   
“John Hamish Watson, if you were looking for baby names,” John says.  
Sherlock looks up at him, confused.  
John shakes his head.

 

__________

 

This time, she really is dead, and Sherlock takes the phone.


	8. Chapter 8

John wakes himself up with his own screams.  
 _This hasn’t happened in a while,_ he thinks.

“You’re alright, John. I’ve got you,” Sherlock says from somewhere.

John’s eyes open wide and he gets his bearings. He looks around, moves to wipe at his face. Sherlock is above him, holding him at his sides.  
“It’s alright,” Sherlock repeats. 

They are in their room in Baskerville. Sherlock’s bed is empty, and instead Sherlock is sitting on John’s twin bed. Sherlock’s eyes are wide with worry. Sherlock’s right hand has come up to John’s face, placed there gently.  
John takes full breathes through his nose, then nods.  
“I’m fine,” John says. He’s afraid to move. He’s so shocked the hand is there and is afraid that as soon as he moves a muscle it will disappear. Sherlock’s hand is warm and calming and it doesn’t seem like it could be real. Sherlock’s eyes stay steady but become less intense, and then he looks away. The hand is slowly drawn back. It feels like a slap.  
“Good.”  
“Sorry, I must’ve woken you,” John says, starting to feel embarrassed.   
“I wasn’t asleep,” Sherlock replies.

Sherlock leans forward, inspecting, and for a moment, John thinks he is going to kiss him. Sherlock looks soft and very serious suddenly, and is staring John down as if he expects something from him.  
“Why are you looking at me like that?” John whispers. Sherlock looks almost hungry.  
“Sorry,” Sherlock whispers back, then, “Go back to sleep John.”  
John feels as if he has just lost something.  
“John?” Sherlock asks softly in the dark.  
“What?” John doesn’t know why they are whispering.  
“You know I’d never let anyone hurt you, right?”  
John almost laughs. He does not feel that he exactly needs to be protected. After all the danger he has willingly put himself in with Sherlock at his side, getting hurt seems like nothing.  
“What are you on about?”  
“Nothing, go back to sleep.”

John cracks a smile and shakes his head in the dark. He falls into a deep and dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short n to the point cause the next one is gonna be rough lmao.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “If one wishes to be instructed--not that anyone does--concerning the treacherous role that memory plays in a human life, consider how relentlessly the water of memory refuses to break, how it impedes that journey into the air of time. Time: the whisper beneath that word is death. With this unanswerable weight hanging heavier and heavier over one's head, the vision becomes cloudy, nothing is what it seems...  
> How then, can I trust my memory concerning that particular Sunday afternoon?...Beneath the face of anyone you ever loved for true--anyone you love, you will always love, love is not at the mercy of time and it does not recognize death, they are strangers to each other--beneath the face of the beloved, however ancient, ruined, and scarred, is the face of the baby your love once was, and will always be, for you. Love serves, then, if memory doesn't, and passion, apart from its tense relation to agony, labors beneath the shadow of death. Passion is terrifying, it can rock you, change you, bring your head under, as when a wind rises from the bottom of the sea, and you're out there in the craft of your mortality, alone.”  
> -James Baldwin

In the mirror, inspecting, he looks old. He’s found a few grey hairs on his blond head, and the wrinkles around his eyes have grown more noticeable over the last year.  
John tries to remember that he is indeed over the forty year mark, but at times it’s hard to recall that number, when just last night he was running across London at four o’clock in the morning and it felt like nothing at all.  
Being with Sherlock kept him younger, it would seem.  
It was strange, seeing the proof of a middle age, there for all to see, but not really feeling it. He’d felt it a year and a half ago, before he had much of a reason to do anything at all. Feeling on the verge of death, wrinkles had made sense.  
John ties his robe tighter, breathes deeply and makes his way to the kitchen to put the kettle on. Sherlock sits at his microscope, his phone somewhere off to the side, dinging.  
“Your phone,” John says.  
“Yes, it keeps doing that.”

John sits down with the paper, smiling a little at the mannequin hanging from a rope. Sherlock’s phone dings again; stubborn git. It’s ridiculous really, how thinking of such an arrogant arsehole of a man make John feel like he’s dying slowly, but in the good way. Not feeling very stubborn at all, John makes his way over to Sherlock’s phone and picks it up.  
No. Not again. 

_Come and play._  
Tower Hill.  
Jim Moriarty x  
John feels a bit sick, but breathes evenly and goes to hand Sherlock his phone.

__________

 

Sherlock has fixed his hair a total of seven times since putting on his suit jacket, and he’s buttoned and unbuttoned the damn thing at least five. John looks over in the mirror and sees Sherlock’s reflection watching him. John gives a stiff smile then nods. Sherlock does the same but looks away as he smiles, finally doing the buttons up for the last time.  
John pulls on his own jacket. They head towards the door. John puts his hand on the doorknob, and looks up.  
“Ready?” Sherlock’s eyes stay on him, and he does indeed look a bit nervous. Sherlock swallows, then blinks several times.  
“Yes,” he replies finally. John nods to him again, then opens the door. John goes first, they don’t want him after all.

 

__________

Inside the cab, Sherlock rubs his hands together over and over, it looks nearly painful.  
“Sherlock, it’s going to be fine. Like I said just keep it simple. You’ll be done so soon, really.”  
“I know it’s fine,” Sherlock says, but looks at John anyway.  
John is tempted to put his hands on Sherlock’s, just to stop the raw nervousness but he doesn’t. He places his hand on his shoulder instead. He pats it once, then pulls away.  
John looks out the window, fiddling with the idea of James Moriarty getting his hands on Sherlock. It is unpleasant in every aspect, and he wonders what it would be like to rip the eyelids off of Moriarty’s face. 

 

__________

 

The case does not go well. Sherlock testifies but is kicked out. Days later, Moriarty is found not guilty, and John can’t get the image of Moriarty beaming up at him, might as well have winked and all. 

__________

 

Sherlock breathes softly on the sofa. It’s three a.m. and John had come down for water. Only the desk lamp is on, and in the soft glow Sherlock breathes softly, a book on his chest. John walks over, takes the book away (but saves the page) and pulls a blanket over his chest instead.  
John smiles down at him. He looks so small, and young. Here, Sherlock is his own. John dares to run his hand over Sherlock’s hair just once, then goes back upstairs, forgetting what he’d gone down for in the first place.

__________

If Mycroft wants John to look out for Sherlock (like he’s already been doing for the past nearly two years) then he will. He didn’t need Mycroft to ask him. All he had had to do really was tell him there were assassins living nearby.  
John saw the woman in the hall the next day. Shook her hand, nodded. The first man when he was coming back with the shopping. The other two as he was unlocking the door. He made a point to shake hands with each of them. They should know: John Watson wouldn’t allow it, John Watson knows you’re here. 

 

__________

 

After the girl screams her head off in Sherlock’s presence, the next time John sees Sherlock, one of the hit squad is shot dead and Sherlock is standing over him, completely confused and overwhelmed.  
“He died because I shook his hand,” Sherlock says, head swerving around in every direction. Something else happened to him in the cab, though John doesn’t know what.  
_He died because I shook his hand._  
Funny, John thinks. They didn’t seem to mind with me.

__________

 

“Should of gone with them,” John says. “People will think—“  
“I don’t care what people think.”  
“You’ll care if they thought you were stupid. Or wrong.”  
“That would just make them stupid or wrong.”  
“Sherlock, I don’t want the world believing…” John trails off. _Because I never would._  
Sherlock watches him intensely. His mouth open just slightly, eyes wide. He looks angry, hurt. “Believing that I am what?”  
“A fraud,” John finishes. He hates the words coming out of his mouth. He doesn’t want to worry Sherlock, but this is what’s happening. Moriarty’s plan. Sherlock surprises him though.  
“You’re worried they’re right.”  
Sherlock continues, and John simply says no. How could Sherlock think he didn’t believe in him? It’s absurd really. Of all the cases, how they met, the little things he would pull out of nowhere just to show John. When you live with someone for two years you can’t keep up an act like that. He knows him, and he loves him.  
“Moriarty is playing with your mind too, CAN’T YOU SEE WHAT’S GOING ON?” Sherlock yells. He’s scared.  
John looks at him very seriously, not willing to let him think for a moment he doesn’t believe him.  
“Nah, I know you’re for real.”  
“One hundred percent.”  
“No one could fake being such an annoying dick all the time.”

 

__________

 

Seeing Sherlock arrested may be one of the most surreal things John has ever seen. It also makes him intensely angry.  
“Don’t interfere or I’ll arrest you too,” Lestrade says.  
It doesn’t make sense, though nothing in the last twelve hours has made much sense.  
And all it takes is one more person insulting Sherlock, and John is in handcuffs too.

__________

 

_If I trust him enough to throw me in front of a bus, what don’t I trust him with?_

 

__________

 

The last thing John expects to see in Kitty’s flat is Moriarty. But there he is. Hair wild, wearing a fucking cardigan.  
“Doctor Watson, please, I know you’re a good man…don’t…don’t hurt me,” he sputters at John. He feels sick.  
“NO, YOU’RE MORIARTY, YOU WERE GOING TO BLOW ME UP.”  
_You knew all about me. You knew about Ellis. That is not something Sherlock knows. Couldn’t._  
“Just tell him,” Moriarty pleads. Over and over. It doesn’t matter really, how much he wants to beg. 

Outside, Sherlock is speaking in circles, until suddenly, he’s not.  
“There’s something I have to do,” he says, trailing off.  
“What is it, can I help?”  
“No, on my own.”  
He leaves, and John is left standing in the street, confused as ever, wanting just to touch him. 

__________

 

John goes to Mycroft. It seems the only thing to do, given the situation. He needs help. They both do, and if Sherlock won’t go to his brother then John will. And the other, more itching problem: Mycroft knows how this happened.  
“You know, there’s only two names in his address book. Yours, and mine, and I didn’t give him any of this,” John says, anger growing as he sifts through Moriarty’s papers. “He’s your brother and you blabbed about his entire life to this maniac.”  
John swallows down his anger to get answers: tries to be rational.  
Moriarty knows everything about Sherlock now. Mycroft switched his brother for a fucking key code.  
“Moriarty wanted Sherlock destroyed, and you have given him the perfect ammunition,” John says, then gives Mycroft a stiff smile. The ones that happen when he’s wickedly angry. He stares him down as Mycroft sighs heavily. Mycroft apologizes, and John laughs in his face.

 

__________

 

John wakes up to the paramedics ringing him. Panic hits him, as evidently Mrs. Hudson has been shot.  
Sherlock won’t come.  
“Doesn’t she mean anything to you?” John demands. “You once nearly killed a man because he laid a finger on her.” It’s only later he realizes he may have been talking about himself as well.  
“She’s my landlady,” Sherlock replies.  
“She’s DYING. YOU MACHINE!” John yells. He leaves, lets Sherlock _think_. It’s preposterous really.  
“Alone is what I have. Alone protects me,” Sherlock says as John walks out the door.  
“No, friends protect people.”

The problem is, when John arrives back at 221B, Mrs. Hudson is there, all in order. Sherlock knew she was fine. And he’d stayed. Stayed for what?  
“Oh my God,” John whispers, and runs back out of the flat.

__________

 

As soon as John gets out of the cab, Sherlock calls him, tells him to look up.  
Standing on the top of Bart’s hospital, is the love of his life, and he’s lying to him, over and over.  
“I can’t come down,” Sherlock says. “So we’ll just have to do it like this.”  
“It’s all true,” Sherlock continues.  
_Why is he lying to me_ , John thinks.  
“Why are you saying this?” John begs.  
“I’m a fake,” Sherlock breathes through the phone. John can hear the aching in his voice. He doesn’t want to know what his face looks like, is almost thankful he can’t see it. Though, all he wants to do is put his palm to Sherlock’s face, run his thumb over his cheekbone.  
“Nobody could be that clever,” Sherlock says.  
“You could,” John responds, and Sherlock lets out a shaky laugh. John’s feet feel numb, as do his hands.  
“Please, will you do this for me?” Sherlock asks.  
_Anything, anything for you. Anything to get you away from the ledge of the roof._  
He has already said goodbye, John’s words not making any difference. John screams his name out, it makes no difference.

Everything just sort of goes cold and silent after that. The half rain half snow has started, and it doesn’t matter much that he’s been pushed onto the ground. He reaches the body, still warm. Still so warm he could be breathing somewhere inside that giant coat, his heart a small bird possibly fluttering. But there is no pulse, no way inside his mind. John wants to crawl into his ribcage, lay on the pavement next to him and fall asleep. Maybe not wake up forever next to him. 

 

__________

 

John can’t believe he went to meet with his therapist. As if that would have helped. He pours himself scotch, sits barefoot in his chair and watches Sherlock’s chair opposite him. He wants to burn it. It mocks him, existing there, empty. Mycroft has planned a funeral. John is sure it will be hateful. He is sure Sherlock would hate it. It is in three days and the idea of attending makes him want to die, not attending makes him want to die.  
Dying feels like this.  
Dying feels just like this.  
Dying feels like whatever right now feels like.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that was a doozy, woop.  
> good news is, i have now graduated from undergrad so i get four months before i start graduate school, free for me to write whatever i wanna. i will have so much time to finish this now, and will actually regularly update, wowee.  
> also, the next few chapters will be more of my own take and not just going with the canon, which i've been dying to do.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: mentions of suicide. it is not attempted by any means but is mentioned. so are anti depression/anxiety medications.  
> my hand slipped and i really made john super duper sad. anyway, here's wonderwall.

It is afternoon when John wakes up. He knows because of the way the light comes in through his bedroom window. Sunlight hits the light beige wall right in the middle, and John pulls the covers back over his head because what. Is. The. Point? 

He’s slept through his hangover. He can tell because he’s only slightly groggy. His head doesn’t pound, and his body doesn’t ache.  
Only he may not have slept through it. No, he vomited most of the scotch up before he fell asleep. He thinks he got most of it into the toilet this time. He rubs at the left side of his face, then at his calf, sore. 

It’s been a month without him. Last night had marked one month. Though time has slipped by, it’s really as if time hasn’t moved at all. 

Earlier, John would wake up in the middle of the night, thinking he heard the violin. When he would have PTSD in the past, he’d used to often wake up to the sound of the violin, the notes soft and sweet, and he’d realized over time that Sherlock had been playing him a lullaby when he’d been screaming in the night. 

As much as John would love to go back to sleep, to possibly not wake up, he knows sleep now would be impossible. It’s been hard enough getting to sleep each night; that’s how the drinking started. And God, if he hadn’t gone straight to the hard shit. Beer took much too long.  
After only twenty minutes, he’d feel the scotch start to kick in, everything sort of getting fuzzy after that. It was a blessing, this. He’d never sleep if it wasn’t for the scotch. The oldest medicine, really. 

John pushes the sheet aside and sits up slowly. Eating seems unimportant at present. It had seemed unimportant for the last month. He’d gone back to the clinic after two weeks, simply because he couldn’t afford not to. It was a job he’d done on auto-pilot, not looking any patients in the eyes.  
He wasn’t in today, though.

John attempts the cross word, doesn’t look at the news in the papers though. There were still things about Sherlock in them, lies about him. It made him angry but mostly very disgusted, to know that there were people out there, saying things about him, as if they knew him. Sherlock had asked him, several times, why John cared what people said about him.  
_Because I love you. Because I still love you, even in death, I still will and it won’t stop._

He’s listened to the voicemail Sherlock left for him during their time at Baskerville fifty seven times. The day he found he still had it on his phone he played it over and over until he finally went over the tipping point and couldn’t hear Sherlock’s voice anymore as each sob took over and rocked him to sleep.  
But when he found it, he’d laid awake in bed, playing it, over and over.  
_John, come out to the bar there’s a man out here who’s annoying I may kill him if you don’t get here right now._  
Hearing Sherlock say his name had been enough. Sherlock asking him to come to him. It was so ridiculous really, John knew how stupid it was, yet he couldn’t help it.  
He plays it again when he gets out of bed. He’s torturing himself, he knows it. It’s a lovely way to die really.

 

At five o’clock, John forced himself to eat an egg and a piece of toast. He eats it quickly, as lingering on it would make him nauseous. He is already drunk, swallowing scotch with the bread, and he knows this is Not Good but there isn’t much reason to care if it is rather Not Good.  
He turns on the television at six o’clock and tries to concentrate on what he is watching. On his fourth drink, he’s already properly drunk. The show he’s watching is absolute rubbish.  
“Of course it’s rubbish,” a voice to John’s left says. John is sitting on the sofa and when he turns, he sees him. He knows it isn’t real, that he’s drunk, and depressed, and desperate.  
“Please go away,” John says to Pretend Sherlock, shaking his head, taking another sip of scotch.  
“Oh, please. You don’t want me to go away at all,” Pretend Sherlock says, and he’s right. He’s always right.  
“Sherlock, it hurts,” John whispers, more into his glass than to the outside world. He’s talking to no one, he should go back to his therapist. Talking to someone should help. Talking to the walls is making nothing better.  
“You aren’t exactly trying to get better,” Pretend Sherlock says. “Look at you. You’re a drunk!” Sherlock yells.  
“Yeah, and you’re dead, I don’t need your opinion.”  
“Of course you need it, that’s all you want. You’re going to end up just like your sister if you don’t knock this off. Eat something and go to bed before you’re vomiting again, just like last night.”  
“Why are you here?” John asks, looking at Sherlock now.  
“Because you want me to be here. And…and I said I’d never let anyone hurt you and you are hurting you, so I’m stopping it.”

He remembers: Sherlock’s open palm on his face, calming, soft, warm. Beautiful. Sherlock looking down at him intensely, sitting on the twin bed, in his pajama shirt, white and thin.  
He remembers wanting: to pull that cotton over Sherlock’s torso, to kiss the clavicles there, to touch the nape of his neck, to let his fingers dance over his bare shoulders, to make his way slowly up to the corner of his mouth, testing the waters.  
He remembers fantasizing: Sherlock moving his palm from John’s face to his hair, pulling lightly as John kisses his neck, leaning in when John kisses the side of his mouth, opening his mouth to let John in.

“I could do that now,” Sherlock whispers. John can almost feel a dip in the sofa where Sherlock is sitting, watching him.  
John closes his eyes, breathes in deeply.  
“I wish you were here. I wish you were here more than anything but you aren’t so please get out of my head,” John whispers at the walls of Baker Street.  
When he opens his eyes, Sherlock is gone. The absence stings. He’s crying again, it’s so stupid. 

 

__________

 

_It’s always the coat, whipping around corners, levitating in shadows, just out of reach. Always the fucking coat with the collar turned up. John tries to catch up, and when he finally does, Sherlock points off in the distance. John doesn’t look back. He’s already staring at the sun. Sherlock’s hair is soft in his hands, and wet from snow. He’s wrapped in blankets, pink blankets, they are laughing behind the sofa in the living room. A teacup is smashed in the middle, next to the fireplace. “Where did you go?” John asks, cheeks flushed from the pink, being this close to Sherlock. “I’m right here,” Sherlock replies. Sherlock wraps an arm around John, and John does the same. His right arm is trapped between Sherlock’s back and the floor. The small of his back warm and solid. He’s so close to him. Sherlock kisses his forehead, then pulls back, smiling. “I’m right here,” he whispers. “Don’t be such an idiot, I’m right here.” Sherlock bites his lip, pulls the skin hard. Sherlock pushes his face into John’s neck, breathing slowly. Doesn’t turn away, only puts his other arm around John’s shoulder._

When John wakes, his right arm is numb. This is worse than PTSD. 

 

__________

 

John drags himself up the seventeen steps up to 221B, takes off his coat, and immediately pours himself scotch.  
This is normal now, the way that Sherlock speaking to him in his head is normal, even though he knows, rationally, it isn’t real. He can’t believe his mind is even clever enough to torture him in this particular way, but it is a kind torture at times if nothing else, and John is not proud to admit that he indulges in it (not often, but often enough). 

His ankles feel heavy. He opens up the new book he’s been trying to sift through. Something in him wants to reach out and pick up one of Sherlock’s chemistry books, but he knows Sherlock’s handwriting will be there, and it’s all still so raw, two months later. John won’t remove any of Sherlock’s things, he doesn’t want to touch them because that would seem rude, Just In Case. Mrs. Hudson has stopped asking. 

He drinks from his glass and thinks about dying again, but he really doesn’t want to add a new routine to the scotch. It’s nearly comical, but John has had enough sense since Sherlock died to take his gun apart, and keep each part in a different part of the flat. He still knows where they all are, and he could put the gun back together by sheer muscle memory alone, no matter how blind drunk he were, but it’s also true that he wouldn’t go to all the trouble to kill himself at that point, he would more than likely just fall asleep on the floor.  
John would love very much to simply fall asleep, instead of staring at walls, at the petty images his mind brings into focus, the ones he plays with: it’s like playing in his own blood, picking at a scab. It’s morbid and stupid and very awful. Very Not Good. He hates how pathetic he is, isn’t sure going to see his therapist is better or worse, but it needs to be better. He hasn’t told her how much he’s been drinking, but he wonders if she can see it in the way his hands shake.  
“Of course she can tell,” Sherlock says. He’s wearing the coat today, always the fucking coat. He’s sitting in his chair tonight, the coat falling over his lap.  
“Just as long as she doesn’t mention it,” John replies to his now imaginary friend. The walls are starting to breathe through the wallpaper.  
“You know why she won’t prescribe you the Prozac, the Xanax, the Zoloft, the Praxil, you bloody. Idiot,” Sherlock says slowly.  
“Why might that be?” John asks dryly, getting tired of where this is going, where he goes with himself nearly every night.  
“She thinks you’re going to take a whole bottle with liquid courage to wash it down!” Sherlock says, nearly getting up from his chair.  
“You know I wouldn’t. I think about it but I already know I won’t, I’m too much of a coward. Unlike you,” John replies. He doesn’t know why he replies. It’s not there. He’s talking to the breathing walls, the untouched microscope slides, the pages of ink on many shelves, notes from old cases stuffed inside at random.  
“I didn’t want to die,” Sherlock says carefully, rubbing his hands together like he used to when he got nervous. 

John throws up scotch in the kitchen sink, rolls down the cupboards. Sherlock has to take him by the hand to pull him into bed.  
When John wakes up in the morning, he’s in Sherlock’s bed, curled around a pillow. It smells like Sherlock’s shampoo. John touches the pillow gently as the morning light comes in through the right window. He can’t tell what time of day it is from this room, but he’d wager it’s early still. He doesn’t remember putting himself in this bed. He feels he’s contaminated it, now it smells like the both of them. He’s rumpled the sheets, they’re different from now from how Sherlock left them tossed about when he woke up the day he died. Did he know that would be the last time he would rise from this bed? John tries to desperately remember the last time they both went to bed, fell asleep, and woke in each other’s presence but he can’t be sure now. He does remember, however, the last time he saw Sherlock wake up in this flat.  
It was lunch time, John was eating a pear and Sherlock walked from his bedroom to the bathroom. He’d come out freshly showered and dressed, and he’d been drying his hair with a towel when he’d come out, talking to John about Moriarty, eyes wide, looking a bit crazed.  
It hurts to remember now, but it’s also lovely, the smell of his shampoo a sweet reminder that although John likes to play pretend with him now, Sherlock was once real, and he once did things to John that he will not forgive.  
John will not forgive him for making him love him. He will not forgive himself for letting it happen, though he’d never have it any other way. 

 

__________

 

Harry has all but forced him to come over for dinner. She knows the signs: she’s lived it. She’s made a roast and the last time John has eaten something homemade and hot was months ago. She’s also brought out a bottle of red wine and John doesn’t have the energy to stop her. He certainly doesn’t have the energy to stop himself. He accepts the food and the wine alike. It isn’t as if he wouldn’t go home and drink all by himself anyway. At least drinking with others was acceptable—albeit it being with one’s alcoholic sister.  
“This is delicious Harry, thank you,” John says after another bite. He feels sleepy, a truly full stomach slowing him.  
“Of course, John,” she says, wrapping her long fingers around her wine glass. He can feel her itching to say something, and he hopes to God she doesn’t. Though Harry has never found it difficult to talk about these things and she certainly won’t after a few glasses of wine. She’s always been the braver of the two. She always gives into her whims, which may be how she ended up so unhappy.  
“I know I should come round more,” John says carefully, weighing.  
“You should, but I know why you don’t, why you haven’t. It’s okay. It started out my fault but things always get in the way.”  
John smiles at her, lips tightening.  
“We both can get a bit…lost, it seems,” John says. Harry smiles genuinely and raises her wine glass. They toast to being broken, indulging.  
“John, can I ask you something?” Harry asks.  
“I suppose,” John replies.  
“Did you love him?”  
John clears his throat, doesn’t meet her eyes.  
“How do you mean?” He says, avoiding the question.  
“You know what I mean,” Harry whispers. She’s staring at him across her table. “I’m your sister. I grew up with you, and I know that you used to talk to a boy for hours on the phone during breaks from Uni. I hid enough relationships from Mum and Dad, and you. I’m not stupid.” She pulls a pack of cigarettes out of her jeans pocket and offers John one. He takes it, unsure why. She pours him more wine.  
“I haven’t had one of these since I was sixteen,” John says quietly. He looks to Harry, who leans across the table and lights it for him, then lights her own. “I didn’t know you knew about those phone calls,” he says, taking a drag. It leaves him light headed quickly. He thinks of how much Sherlock loved these stupid things. He might be saying it out loud, he isn’t sure.  
“I did. Just like you knew that I drank so much of this shite I threw it up everywhere in our parent’s bathroom when I was fifteen.” Harry shrugs. “It does tend to run in families, did you know that?”  
“Maybe. I don’t know,” John replies. He takes a sip of wine. Nothing has felt as dangerous as the possibility of this conversation since Sherlock went away and his heart is beating out of his chest.  
“Did you love him though? Sherlock, I mean,” Harry says. The fact that she has to differentiate between Ellis and Sherlock makes John want to cry. They were not alike and John had been so different.  
John clears his throat, which feels raw at the moment.  
“Yes,” he says, and it’s almost as if he didn’t at all. It came out without his consent. His love feels too real now, as it lays between Harry and John on the table, between an ashtray and two glasses of red wine. His love is dark and calloused and far too real. Harry inhales sharply. She blinks rapidly. If she cries John will flip the table over.  
“John, I’m so sorry,” she says, so quiet he nearly doesn’t hear her. “That isn’t fair at all.”  
Now that it’s too real and too vivid, it all seems to want to come out.  
“Life has never been fair, but, I do think this has been the cruelest trick the universe has played on me thus far.” John finishes his cigarette, puts it out, is no longer sure what to do with his hands so he reaches for his wine glass. “See, you, Harry,” John continues, “you just cocked it up. I do wish that you would just fix it because you can and you love her, so, I think…I think you should fix it. Since it is in the realm of possibility. And the funniest thing is, I did try a few times. I mean I really tried to see if he could want me. But the timing was always so off and I didn’t want to throw all of it away so it just…became…stagnant. I used to think I was content just watching him breathe. When he slept, he was beautiful. I’m sorry, I don’t know what I’m saying,” John says.  
“You can’t stay in that flat John, it’s going to kill you,” Harry says, suddenly very matter of fact.  
“I can’t leave it. I can’t pack up his things. I can’t pack up his things it feels so wrong. It’s been five months and it still feels like it is that afternoon, and he’s dying in my head over and over again. And he doesn’t shut up. He’s so loud,” John admits, and he can’t believe he’s admitting it, to Harry of all people, but of course it’s to Harry.  
“Do you see him?” Harry asks.  
“All the time. And, now, listen. I know he isn’t there. I know that he isn’t there at all and it’s just me making it all worse but he’s there and I’m not sure I want to be rid of him.”  
“You have to get rid of him. You can stay here, for a while, before you find a place. You can’t be there all alone all the time.”  
“I can’t stay here. I know you’re right but I am so afraid to leave it. I can’t go back to how it was before him. I love him so much and I’m so afraid it will never stop. I don’t want it to,” John says, and it almost sounds like a question.  
“Just stay here tonight. But, John, please look at me,” Harry says. Her eyes are deep and mirror his own.  
“I’m listening,” John says, mouth dry.  
“You have to let him go.” Harry pronounces every word with care. 

__________

 

_John has woken up and fallen asleep at least three times. He’s sitting at a camp fire, imagines the lights in the woods are all those who have died, and they are watching him from the vines. He’s playing hide and seek with Sherlock here, he’s seen him around, but he’s hiding in ghost light. John keeps thinking Sherlock is at his feet, at his side, can feel the space in his bed dip as if he is there. He’s sweating underneath blankets and when he pulls up the layers of bedding Sherlock is there in a red shirt. He kisses John hungrily and it must be real. “I’ll leave you alone, now,” Sherlock says. “No, I want you to bother me until I die,” John says, wants to kiss him again. The red shirt is soft. “No, no, John. Crawl out of my bones,” Sherlock says. John doesn’t know what that means._

He wakes on Harry’s couch, mouth sticky and sickly sour from the wine.  
“Fine, I’ll do it, but I’ll only love you more,” John says to no one in particular. He rolls over, cradles the pillow Harry gave me. Falls asleep once more.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. this is completely unedited, i wanted to post it before i left for work. so, i apologize for any really bad grammar, i will be coming back to fix it.  
> 2\. notice how that tag up there says "eventual john/sherlock"? well it's still happening, do not worry! please don't hate me! i'm only adding to the angst that will come later! because, that's kind of my thing. ;)

On the train back to his flat, John rubs at his shoulder, the one that took his surgeon’s hands from him, sore. It’s been raining a lot in London this summer, the weather damp and humid. He looks around the train, only two stops to go before his own, and clears his throat. His eyes widen at the sight of a face he hasn’t seen in ages. Molly Hooper, wearing a powder blue sweater, hair clipped up, reading a book. He can’t help but smile, while simultaneously hoping that she doesn’t see him. Molly Hooper is just fine, but he also knows they’d have nothing to talk about, aside from the one thing he Does Not want to talk about. 

Unluckily, however, it’s almost as if she can feel his eyes on her and she looks up and around. John looks away, but it doesn’t work well enough, and he can feel Molly’s eyes on him. From the corner of his eye he sees her get up and walk down the train, feeling at the top handles all the way as the train makes a turn.  
“John?” Molly says softly. There is no way to ignore her really, and so he gives up and looks her in the eye. She smiles at him, seeming so intensely happy to see him and he can’t imagine why.  
“Molly Hooper,” John says, forcing a smile and then nodding.  
“I nearly didn’t recognize you with the mustache,” she says, then giggles a bit.  
“Yes, well,” John says back. It isn’t really a reply.  
“All right?” Molly asks, the age old question. There’s only one real answer anyone can respond with.  
“Fine, and you?” John says.  
“I’m good. Are you still at the clinic?”  
“Yes, and you’re still at…” John’s voice trails off, not really wanting to say the name of the hospital Sherlock threw himself off.  
“At Bart’s, yeah,” Molly replies, and it’s as if she must know because her face turns, something almost akin to pity marking it.  
“John,” Molly starts. Or at least, she seems about to start, but then perhaps thinks better of it. She regroups. “John, I do hope you’re well. I know leaving Baker Street must have been difficult.”  
And so it begins. She must have been visiting with Mrs. Hudson. John feels somewhat guilty. It’s been nearly a year since he’s been to see her.  
“I managed it,” John says, nodding.  
“I wish I’d known, I’d have taken some of things, no…I just meant…that I would have helped you move it,” she says. Always a bit awkward, but ever sweet. John smiles somewhat genuinely.  
“It’s fine, I had my sister help me.”  
“Right. Well, I’m sure Sherlock knows it had to happen, you moving out.”  
“Knows?” John asks. It must have been a slip of the tongue, but a strange one.  
“I just um, that he would have understood. I…” Molly looks at him intensely now, a strand of hair falling across her cheek. “I know he would have just wanted you happy, and…safe. He would want you to be safe.”  
John doesn’t understand what she’s on about, so he simply nods, then stands.  
“This is my stop Molly.”  
“Oh, of course.”  
“It was good to see you,” John says. Molly smiles lightly and nods. John steps out of the train’s doors and shakes his head. 

 

At home in his new (year old) flat, he makes tea. It’s a bit bigger than Baker St, also farther away from the heart of London. It’s at least better than staring at all of Sherlock’s things, making himself crazy. It’s been a year and a half and he’s still hurting. He doesn’t think it will ever stop at this point, it is terminal now. Ubiquitous and lonesome. As is his love. That’s really the worst part of it. The desire still there. The way Sherlock moved his hands against the violin still a vivid memory, beautiful and sharp. John sits down to take his tea, let’s himself rest. He hasn’t had a drink in two months and he’s quite impressed with himself.

 

__________

 

At the clinic, he’s doing a routine checkup when a nurse comes in.  
“Doctor Watson, Mrs. Roberts has passed out on the floor, we need help.”  
The clinic is small, and it’s possibly only Sarah, this nurse, and himself on staff.  
“I’ll be back,” John says to the man on the padded seat, and turns out the door.

Mrs. Roberts is no longer simply passed out but is also convulsing on the floor. The nurse gets on her knees, trying to open Mrs. Roberts eyes.  
“Mrs. Roberts, can you hear me?”  
The patient’s red hair is in her mouth, sticking to her face.  
“I don’t think she’s conscious. She just came in for a head injury a few days ago.  
The seizing suddenly stops, and Mrs. Roberts blinks rapidly.  
“What happened?”  
“It’s alright, Mrs. Roberts, you’re okay now.”  
“What was she doing before she passed out?” John asks.  
“She was just sitting in the chair, waiting for her appointment. I didn’t know what could have caused it, Sarah pulled her file up before she went to lunch.”  
“Let’s move her to a bed,” John says, and begins to help Mrs. Roberts up.

 

__________

 

“All right?” John asks the nurse. She laughs a little.  
“I’m fine, it’s just a bit funny that. That’s one way to start a new job.”  
“First day then?”  
“Yeah, I mean I’ve seen a lot worse of course, just she was fine and it sort of spiraled quickly.”  
“Well, you did fine.”  
“Oh, I know,” she says, and grins a bit at John. He chuckles a bit.  
“I’m Mary,” she says.  
“John.”  
“I know,” Mary repeats. John smiles at her, of course she already knew his name.  
“Do you want to go grab lunch now, new shift on, I think we deserve it,” Mary says, her dark blue eyes staring at him.  
“Sure,” John says and he is surprised at himself. Maybe it’s the way her short blond hair is falling into her eyes so she pulls it behind her ear, or maybe it’s the pink lipstick reminding him of a time when he wasn’t so god awful obsessed with a man with dark curls. She looks nothing like him, and she’s flattering and he hasn’t spoken to much of anyone these last few months. Maybe lunch would do him good. 

 

__________

 

She orders a sandwich and coffee and is sarcastic and witty the entire time, and John thinks he could be friends with her at least, someone who doesn’t fake the whole of human emotions. She isn’t trying to be nice to him, or friendly, she’s just talking. She talks about her last job outside of the city, her recent ex named David (only briefly), she shows him where she burned her hand two days ago from the oven, baking homemade bread.  
“I was clumsy,” she says. He takes the burned hand in his own.  
“It isn’t so bad,” John replies. 

 

__________

 

They’ve been texting, and it’s two weeks later and she’s standing outside his office door as he files the last of the paperwork for the night. She pushes her hair back with her palm. She looks tired from the double she’s worked.  
“Hey, John,” she says quietly, so as not to disturb him.  
John looks up, the hall light off, there’s a soft glow coming from the lamp on his desk and her face looks soft and delicate. She bites her lip. She looks down then back up, almost shy which is uncharacteristic and then leans against the door frame.  
“Would you like to get drinks this Friday?”  
Friday is two days away. Immediately the thought of a drink makes John nervous but then he remembers he started to control it the night Harry told him to let go, and he had, and though he’d drank a few times, he didn’t have the problem anymore. He could get a pint or two and go home. But, then--  
“Are you asking me on a date?” John asks. Mary crinkles her nose and then breaks into a smile.  
“Yeah, I suppose I am,” she says, then raises her eyebrows in anticipation. 

John hadn’t realized this was where their conversations were leading exactly. In the back of his mind, he’d hoped a little but wasn’t sure that he’d make a good partner to anyone. But she was good, Mary. Her honesty was needed, the way she made him laugh, the fact that she didn’t seem to mind how unresponsive he could be, how broken he still was, and she hadn’t even asked why.  
“Yeah, sounds good.”  
“Good, I’ll text you details, yeah?”  
“Yeah.”  
“Okay. Goodnight, John,” Mary says, adjusts her purse, then walks away, only after looking back once and smiling. John had forgotten what someone actually being interested in him was like, and it felt rather nice. 

 

__________

 

She had texted:  
_It’s casual_ with the name of the pub and the time and it was 8:00 pm now and John needed to get into a cab as soon as possible so he wouldn’t be late. He glances at himself in the mirror once more. He has the date jacket on, and one of his nicer navy blue sweaters. He hasn’t been sleeping well, hasn’t in a long time really, but he still looks decent. He can’t believe he’s going on a date again, after over a year, much more than a year, of not doing so. It’s almost funny to think he’s doing it, and it was only ever going to happen again if Sherlock was dead. 

But now is not the time to think about his dead never-lover, and he straightens his jacket, grabs his keys, and leaves his flat. 

 

__________

 

The pub is only half full. It’s dimly lit and music plays softly and it seems to be the sort of place where you could go alone or go with people and either way no one would judge you. Mary is sitting at a table, sifting through her phone and picking up her drink to take a sip. When John gets closer he sees she’s ordered a gin and tonic. She looks wonderful, very different than at work, but the very essence of her still the same. She has a silk button up blouse on, and her hair is tied up, some of it falling down and she just looks…beautiful.  
“Hey,” John says as he sits down. She smiles at him and puts her phone down.  
“See, I knew you couldn’t stand me up, that would make work on Monday rather awkward don’t you think?”  
John laughs, puts his hands in his lap and leans back in his chair.  
“I would say so, yeah.”

John orders a beer and half of it is gone quickly somehow, Mary’s drink refilled, and they’re laughing about one of the night nurses which may not be very kind but John has never been very kind and it is genuinely funny. 

She changes the conversation though, and it’s a good thing his pint is still half full, ready to be consumed.  
“When I first met you, you know, I waited to ask you out, because I didn’t think you’d say yes,” she says, taking a sip of gin and smiling into her cup.  
John furrows his eyebrows, mocking shock.  
“Why would I have said no? I’d be stupid not to,” he says.  
“I thought you already had someone,” she replies. “But, then I learned otherwise so here we are.”  
“Why did you think I was with someone?” John asks, genuinely curious, half afraid of her answer.  
“I dunno, you seemed guarded at first. I felt like I was doing all the talking. You did open up though, after a few days. Were you weighing if you should get to know me or not?” She smiles behind her glass again, eyebrows raised. John decides honesty is best.  
“A little. Yeah. But, only because…I haven’t dated in a while. And, obviously, you’re far too good for me,” John replies, lifting his beer, then motioning for another round. Mary laughs and it’s adorable.  
“You’re right there, I am a catch,” Mary replies, and now they’re both laughing. 

Three beers in, they’re outside of the pub. It’s gotten late, and they’re both tired, somewhat leaning against the other while they wait for a cab to pass. When one finally does, John waves it down and opens the door for Mary.  
“You take this one, I’ll get the next one.”  
“Such a gentleman,” she says, but doesn’t get in right away. Instead, she runs her hand down the back of John’s head, through his hair, then leaves her palm heavy at the nape of his neck. She leans in and kisses him gently, then pulls away, getting inside of the cab. John comes around the door and leans down.  
“I had a good time tonight, Mary.”  
“Good, me too.” She smiles at him, and he smiles back. He closes the door of the cab and steadies himself. It has been a long time since he’s kissed someone. He hadn’t remembered how lovely it’d been. 

 

__________

They’ve been going on dates at least once a week. Sometimes when Mary is off, she’ll get lunch with John on his breaks, and she’ll laugh into her coffee, the cup stained with pink lip marks. She’s been kissing him on his jawline, and he’s been sighing into it, growing used to it. 

It’s been two months, and they’ve walked from dinner to Mary’s flat. She’s put her arm in his, placed her head on his shoulder, and when they arrive at her door, she kisses him.  
“Would you like to come up? I can put the kettle on,” she asks. Her eyes are searching.  
“I’m not sure,” John says. He’s wary of himself, not willing to mess this up. If he still feels so damn sad, how can he move on?  
“About what?” Mary asks somewhat cautiously, smiling just a little.  
“You know…how I’ve been,” John begins. He’d told her about Sherlock’s death, how his best friend had killed himself in front of him, how it’d messed him up more than he could have imagined. “And, it has been a long time, you know. I really like you.”  
“We could _actually_ just go up and have tea you know, that’s an option too.” She scrunches her nose and smiles, the face that’s been entering his dreams on and off.  
“You’re right,” John says, and Mary opens the door. 

They take the elevator to the seventh floor, and she unlocks the door, throwing her coat off and onto her couch. She immediately goes to the kitchen to put on the kettle. John looks around. Her walls are yellow and orange, autumnal. She has a picture with herself and a bunch of her friends sitting on a side table.  
“And who’s all this?” John asks. Mary comes back, smiling.  
“That was a girl’s night that one. That’s Abbey, Marie, and Janine.” 

She sits down on the sofa, watching John.  
“Well come over here, you. Want me to pop in a movie?”  
“If you want,” John replies, and carefully takes off his coat.  
“John, you really don’t need to look so nervous, honestly,” Mary says quietly. “I really like you, I’m not trying to move too quickly you know. I just…like you.”  
“I know. I’m being stupid,” John says, and sits down next to her. Her face goes soft, and she puts a hand in his hair.  
“You are not being stupid. You’re being a person. And you’re lovely.”  
John sighs heavily, runs a hand through her hair, presses his mouth to her cheek.  
“You’re too good to me, you know,” he says, nearly a whisper. _I don’t deserve her he thinks_ , as she runs a hand down his arm.  
“Absolutely not,” Mary replies. John moves his mouth down a bit, toward her neck, and Mary inhales sharply.  
John knows he isn’t sure, but will he ever be? He doesn’t mind it so much, being unsure, with her at least. And he is sure that she wants him, which feels fantastic. He is suddenly not so afraid anymore. This doesn’t feel like a Too Late or a Waste. This feels wonderful, her light breath, her hand in his hair. John pulls away just enough to look at her face, see the flush there, the slight smile.  
“John,” she says, so quiet it’s nearly just a breath against his lips. He leans back in to kiss her mouth, and she kisses back, opening her mouth for him, just as the kettle begins to shriek. 

 

__________

 

It is late a week later, around two am and the city is uncharacteristically quiet from Mary’s window. Her head is balanced precariously on his shoulder, the bad one, with the scar. She has arm around his waist and he’s playing with her hair, the curtains drawn, her face purple and blue shades in the night.  
“Can I ask you something?” She says quietly. There is no reason to be quiet, but because they’re both somewhat close to sleep and it is dark it seems reasonable.  
“What is it?” John asks. He’s been with her three months and he wants to tell her everything.  
“Did you love him?” This time it is a deliberate whisper. It wasn’t the question he expected, but then it’s the question he’s been waiting for all along.  
“Who?” John asks. He knows who. He just needs to confirm. He needs to make it seem as if the answer isn’t _Yes, and I still do._  
“Sherlock, you idiot…I only ask because…the way you mourn him…” She trails off.  
“I think…given the circumstances, if this is turning into what I think it is…” John trails off too.  
“Something serious?” Mary confirms.  
“Yes. If it’s turning into something of a future, then I won’t lie to you.”  
“You did?”  
“Yes, I did.”  
John doesn’t say _Yes I loved him_ because he can’t put that into past tense without lying, and he doesn’t want to say the words out loud to her, they don’t belong here, in Their Bed.  
“I’m sorry, John. I didn’t know if you were together or not.”  
“We were never together.”  
Mary inhales sharply.  
“I’m sorry.”  
“It doesn’t matter now,” John says. “I’ve got you.”  
Mary turns in the dark and puts a palm to his face, kisses him. 

____________

It’s a Tuesday morning, and John rolls over to face Mary, her lilac walls framing her sleeping figure. She’s soft in sleep, beautiful. She blinks a few times and then matches his gaze.  
“Were you watching me sleep?” She asks  
“Only for a few moments,” John says, and smiles. His heart feels full and he can’t stop smiling.  
“What is it?” Mary asks.  
“I love you,” John replies. It just falls out, easily, and it doesn’t hurt at all.  
“Do you really?” She asks with a giggle.  
“I really do.”  
“Good, because I love you too.” 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first of all, sorry, unedited yet again because i'm trash but it will be!!  
> second, hahaha i'm so bad with the angst i'm sorry.

He lets Mary visit the grave with him. The things he has said to this waist-high stone, to the dark grass underneath, are still lost on him sometimes. He once got in a cab intensely drunk and told the cab to take him to the grave. He is fairly certain he’d told the rot under his feet that he was in love with it, scotch burning his throat. How morbid. 

Mary takes his hand in hers and squeezes. John nods once, then looks to her. He’s been looking to her for guidance a lot lately, it feels like. She has saved him in many ways, which is why the small box is burning a hole in the breast pocket of his jacket. He nearly just wants to get it over with, because he can’t lose anyone else, certainly not her, the woman who put him back together.   
“I’m just sorry I didn’t get to meet him,” Mary says. John has a laugh at that.   
“Oh, no. He would have been awful,” John says. Mary smiles up at him. 

They get back into her car, and Mary starts the engine.  
“Is dinner still on tonight, eight, yeah?”  
“Absolutely,” John replies. “I’ve something to ask you.”

__________

 

John is actually nervous. He fiddled with the ring at least twenty times during the cab ride down and it has been only a short time with Mary—just six months—but it still feels correct somehow. This is what he should be doing. He was frightened of the idea at first, but now it feels like sanity all finally coming together.   
John has to admit: running around with Sherlock all the time, getting shot at, nearly dying three times a week, had been madness. Despite how he had loved it terribly. 

He knows Mary will be here soon. He puts the ring back into his jacket and downs some more wine, trying to ease himself a bit. He orders champagne from a waiter and just as he finishes doing so, he sees Mary coming down to join him. He can’t help but smile wide at her. She looks beautiful, her purple dress a good match for her, and she’s positively glowing. 

She sits down across from John, crosses her legs, and then raises her eyebrows.   
“You had something you ask me?”  
John grins. She looks adorable, is wonderful, and his chest sort of hurts, the familiar kind that he had tried to live with. 

John tries to begin. He messes up just a little. Throwing words around. He’s never been good at this, but Mary knows exactly what is happening and is giggling the entire time.   
“You’re the best thing that could have happened to me,” John says.  
“I agree. I am the best thing that has happened to you.” He smiles, eyes crinkling.   
“Well, Mary, if you’ll have me, if you could see your way…” John trails off and then is completely interrupted. 

The waiter is chattering in their ears, talking about champagne, and John would have been angry except that Mary is covering her mouth trying not to laugh and so he just shakes his head and grins—until.

John looks up to stop the waiter, to tell him to leave. 

An ancient bone in John’s chest cavity sort of snaps, at least, that’s what it feels like. John can feel his mouth doing the pursing that it does when he doesn’t know what to do, when he’s upset, or confused, or very angry. Right now it’s all three, as Sherlock Holmes stares down at him, an awkward and absolutely goofy smile plastered across his face. He has a fake mustache drawn onto his upper lip and John isn’t sure if he wants to smack it off or kiss it off so roughly Sherlock’s mouth bleeds. Possibly both.   
“What’s going on?” Mary asks quietly, but she isn’t slow, and she knows what he Had Looked Like, and she starts to whisper “Oh my god,” very softly. Then, as John’s entire body sort of recoils, “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

Mary is protecting him, but he doesn’t need her protection. John stands up, lifts himself up by some grace of God, and tries to control his breathing.   
“You let me grieve, hm?” John asks Sherlock, after slamming his fist on the table. 

Sherlock wipes off the stupid mustache and looks handsome as ever, is suddenly very himself, and makes a fucking awful joke. A joke so god damn stupid it hurts like hell, it feels like a slap because this is How He Comes Back? John isn’t sure how he’s on the floor, on top of his ex-nothing, throttling him, but he is. 

 

__________

 

John has attempted to calm down, and it has sort of worked. He knows somewhere he’s going to break into sadness and defeat more than anger but right now it’s just anger and he is so thankful for that. They’ve been kicked out of three places already, and as Sherlock dabs at his busted lip he says the words John cannot hear right now.  
“Admit it,” Sherlock says. “You have missed this.”   
John feels his body go numb but his heart just hurts like it did two years ago, like it’s happening all over again.   
“The thrill of the chase,” Sherlock continues, “The blood pumping through your veins _just the two of us against the rest of the world_.”   
John has put his hands on Sherlock many times tonight, and he does it once more. Never in a million years would he have dreamt that this would be how he put his hands on Sherlock if he defied God and rose from the dead. 

 

__________

 

After nearly breaking Sherlock’s nose, John all but stomps to the side of the road to get a cab and immediately gets in. He calls out for Mary, and she comes to him, sliding into the cab.   
“Can you believe all that,” John breathes.   
“I like him,” Mary replies, a little grin forming at the corners of her mouth.   
“What?” John asks, disbelieving.  
“I like him,” Mary repeats, and turns to look out the cab window.   
They’re all unbelievable. 

 

__________

 

They get back to Mary’s flat late, and John feels so tired but he also feels so angry, and he knows he will break soon, and he doesn’t want Mary to see that. He never expected her to need to see him breaking all over again over Sherlock, and he doesn’t want her to.   
“I’m going on a walk, I really need to clear my head.”  
“Alright. Are you okay John? Really?”   
“Yes, I’m fine. I just know I’ll never be able to sleep, I need time to adjust, you know?”  
Mary nods. John kisses her forehead and walks out the door. 

He finds himself wandering the streets of London at 3 am. It isn’t the first time, and he’s sure it won’t be the last. His head hurts a bit from the wine he drank earlier (he hasn’t been drinking much lately, for obvious reasons) and he’s so tired but his mind is racing.  
Of all the times John imagined, fantasized, dreamt, of Sherlock coming back into his life, all he had ever thought he would do is kiss him. Kiss him until all of his breath was gone and then he would hold him, and whisper to him, sweet, insipid words. It should have been like coming home and it just hurt.   
Sherlock had lied to him, and left him alone. Had let him grieve for two years, grieve like he’d lost a lover because how would Sherlock have known? But he had left him. He had left him to go finish the Moriarty job, and John hadn’t been allowed to come. Why? Because Sherlock hadn’t thought him up to it? That had never been a problem before.   
But even so, even if he couldn’t have come, why did Sherlock come back into his life like that? It was nothing but a joke to him. It was all a fucking joke. No tactic at all.   
John had never believed Sherlock to be a sociopath. Still didn’t. But the fact that he had come back like that? It wasn’t Good and it wasn’t on at all.   
And Sherlock had expected him to welcome him back, almost.   
_This is how I know he never loved me, and certainly not in the way I wanted him to. All I ever would have needed was one word. That’s the terrible part. If I’d known he was alive at all, Mary never would have been a possibility. I would have waited forever._  
John knows now though, that there is no more waiting. Sherlock feels, but he doesn’t feel things Like That and so it’s done. There would be no trying anymore. He’d go back to his lovely fiancé, the one who he hadn’t even gotten to properly propose to, and go love her, as he had been doing for the last four months.   
The worst part was, John knew he still loved Sherlock, just as he’d known he always would. But there was no path that could be taken to arrive at that destination, a place where Sherlock would love him back. He had always known he’d love Sherlock forever anyway, whether alive or dead, it made no difference.   
John doubles around another block, then heads back to Mary’s flat, the ring still burning a hole in his jacket. 

 

__________

 

John arrives back at Mary’s flat around four thirty in the morning. She sits up in their bed, pushes her hair out of her face. John sits on the bed, puts a hand to her cheek.  
“I was starting to get worried,” Mary says. She leans into his touch.   
“I know, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to stay out so late.”   
“It’s alright. I understand. Are you okay though?”  
“I’m fine. I just had to get over the initial shock. It’s been a lot.”  
“Of course. He’s…alive though…” Mary trails off, as if she expects him to say something.  
“It appears so,” John replies.   
“Well, are you going to tell him then?”  
“Tell him what?”  
“That…that you love him. Because you can you know, it’s…”  
John realizes what she’s saying. She’s giving him the choice. He shakes his head.  
“Absolutely not. I did…care for him at one point. But I love you. And besides, he doesn’t feel things like that. I want to be with you. Don’t ever think I don’t.”  
It isn’t exactly a lie. It’s as much of the truth as he can tell. He does love Mary, and he does want to be with her.   
Mary releases a breath and puts her head on John’s shoulder.   
John reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out the small box he’d been meaning to give to Mary much earlier in the night.   
“Mary, will you marry me?” John opens the box. “I suppose we got a bit interrupted last time.”  
She laughs a little.  
“Yeah, I will.”  
She puts the ring on, bites her bottom lip in the dark. John smiles, kisses her. They’re both too exhausted, and fall asleep kissing lightly. 

 

__________

 

So, yes. John is shaving after almost a full year. Because apparently Mary and the rest of the universe hates his mustache. And Sherlock. Who isn’t dead. He Is Not shaving for Sherlock though. Not one bit.   
“So are you going to see him again?” Mary asks, a wicked grin forming as she wrinkles her nose.   
“I’m going to work.”  
“Yeah, but then are you going to see him again?”  
John sighs. Now that Mary knows she doesn’t have any competition she’s absolutely trying to get John to see Sherlock again. She isn’t wrong, she never is.   
“Shut up,” John says, deciding that’s the best course of dialect.   
“Or what?”  
“Or I’ll marry you.”

 

__________

 

Getting kidnapped is not fun. It’s happened before but this really takes the cake. John had put on (unsurprisingly, but unintentionally) his date jacket, his nice shoes, had shaved, and now he was getting thrown into the back of a car. Typical, really. Sherlock hadn’t even been back twenty four hours. John wishes he minded even a little. He’s asleep for a long time, an wakes up only to the smell of smoke. When he realizes where he is and what’s happening to him, his voice won’t work properly to scream for help. He passes out again from smoke, only to awaken to a blurry vision of what appears to be his fiancé and Sherlock standing over him. 

 

__________

 

It’s somewhat awful, how easily he’s agreed to help Sherlock again. It’s terrifying how they’ve fallen into each other’s pace so easily, walking in unison. Sherlock doesn’t call for backup, of course. John isn’t even all that upset, he’s actually enjoying it and he’s sure Sherlock knows. He knows everything.   
They make their way down the tracks until they get to the train. They go inside and it should be horrifying, but it’s thrilling: the fact that the entire thing is a bomb. Sherlock actually looks worried though. When John finds that Sherlock cannot turn the bomb off, it gets a little muddled.   
“Use your mind palace!” John yells. And Sherlock tries, but he doesn’t know, truly.  
“No, no. This is just another one of your tricks. You just want me to say something nice.”  
“No, not this time,” Sherlock says. He laughs a little, and now it’s scary because Sherlock Holmes is on his knees, and he’s begged for forgiveness. He’s begged for mercy twice.   
“I’m sorry,” Sherlock says. “You had a future…with Mary.”  
John can’t breathe. It’s too much.  
 _I did have a future with Mary. And now it’s a very short term future with you. It scares me that I’m not entirely angry._  
“You were the best and wisest man that I have ever known. Of course I forgive you.”  
John braces himself. 

 

_I hope they bury our bodies together, the correlation between our both blue veins turning a sicker grey and the way I thought you were dead in the first place forming a makeshift coffin, and we’re already under ground. Did you know back then how I looked at you like you were the solar system, and you kept forgetting it. A scientist who didn’t know about astrology. A man who was loved dearly yet kept secrets of his breathing lungs inside his ribcage from the rest of the world. Your hands danced over tea cups in mid-July, on particularly hot days you’d wear white shirts with the sleeves rolled up and I’d look to see if the vein inside the crook of your elbow was still intact. We used to make jokes about anatomy, we used to fall asleep on opposite sides of the sofa, our ankles interlocking in the middle, we used to laugh in the face of death (except for right now) and in another universe, we used to kiss naked and wet in white bed cloth. I hope after they’ve buried us together, we end up there, in that other universe. The one where you let me rock you to sleep when you’ve stayed up for three days. The one where you let me kiss-fuck the sad out of you, because I saw how sad you were almost all the time, and I was too. The only time we were really happy was when we were together. Remember when you asked me what I would say if I were dying? And I said, I didn’t need to use my imagination? I’m thinking the same thing all over again: Please God, let me live.  
Not because I want to keep living all that much, but because I just got you back. I just got you back, so: Please, God, let me live. _

Oh God.  
Sherlock is laughing at him, pointing and laughing. And John can’t help it, he’s smiling too.  
“The look on your face!” Sherlock says, barely getting it out, collapsing into a fit of giggles.   
“You cock, I knew!”   
“Of course I called for backup,” Sherlock says.   
Of course.   
John can’t believe his thoughts, but then again, of course they were of how in love with Sherlock he is. And he’s engaged. It’s awful. He hates himself but it can’t be helped. 

John looks at the bomb, where it’s been turned off. It’s stopped.   
Blinking, between 1:28 and 1:29.

The day they met.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: mentions of suicide again.
> 
> “Tell me, he said, "What is this thing about time? Why is it better to be late than early? People are always saying, we must wait, we must wait. what are they waiting for?"
> 
> "Well […] I guess people wait in order to make sure of what they feel."
> 
> "And when you have waited—-has it made you sure?” 
> 
> -James Baldwin, Giovanni's Room

Sherlock has texted him three times today. John still isn’t used to it. It’s been a month since Sherlock came back and John knows he’s alive but he’s still surprised when Sherlock contacts him, when he finds himself at Baker St. again, about to attempt to help solve a case.

The first case back had been a disaster. John hadn’t been trying to solve crimes for two years after all, he was rusty. And Sherlock must have realized this, though he never mentioned it. Each time John was with Sherlock he was much more concentrated on Sherlock than any case they were solving, sometimes it felt a bit silly to be there at all. John felt like he was staring, pining away at his friend like two years ago and it wasn’t good so he tried to make up excuses. There had been two cases he’d passed up, feeling not only inadequate but a bit ridiculous. He loved the cases, he’d been able to run after a kidnapper once and it had been spectacular. But he wasn’t unattached anymore.  
Plus, he had to ask Sherlock a rather hilarious question, given the circumstances.  
He had to ask Sherlock to be his best man.  
He had to ask the man he was in love with, who had pretended to be dead for two years, to be his best man. It was ridiculous yet it was the only thing that made much sense. Sherlock still was his best friend, despite how much he had hurt him, unintentional or not. 

__________

 

John walks into what used to be his own flat for the seventh time since Sherlock had returned and he didn’t even knock. He had the first time, and Sherlock had laughed and said “Why in God’s name would you knock?” so he hadn’t after that. 

When he walks in Sherlock has a blowtorch in hand and goggles on. Best not to ask.  
John sits down at the kitchen table and folds his hands together on the surface.  
“I need a best man,” John says simply. Sherlock looks at him and sighs, shrugging a little.  
“Perhaps Mike Stamford he’s…well not best but he’s fine.”  
“No, no I don’t think so.”  
“Lestrade…he’s a man and…good at it?” Sherlock poses it like a question.  
“Well, that’s true,” John says, “But he’s not my best friend.”  
This only seems to confuse Sherlock more. He stares at John blankly.  
“I’m asking you, Sherlock. I’m asking you to be my best man.”  
Sherlock continues his blank staring for a few more seconds, then finally gets himself in order.  
“So you’re saying that I…I’m your best…”  
“Man,” John says.  
“Friend,” Sherlock concludes. John smiles a bit. Does he really not know?  
“Yes, yes of course you’re my best friend.”  
Sherlock doesn’t say anything to this. He blinks entirely too rapidly instead. He doesn’t even seem to be looking at John anymore. More likely he’s inside his own head. He stays this way for over a minute.  
“Okay, that is getting a bit scary now,” John says. 

 

__________

 

Sherlock never actually says yes to being Best Man, but it’s evident that he’s agreed. Sherlock quickly teams up with Mary and somehow ends up planning half the wedding himself. John isn’t sure how to feel about it. Mary tells him that Sherlock is scared, that he’s planning it all out so intensely because he just wants it to be over. John says “Scared of what?” and Mary doesn’t reply, only gives him a knowing look. 

Sherlock plans everything, including the Stag Night.  
Sherlock brings fucking cylinders to the pubs, to measure out exactly how much they’re drinking, to make sure they feel good all night but not enough so to get them actually drunk. The only problem with this is that John wants to be drunk, not only because of the fact that he’s in love with his best friend, still, but because the idea of not getting truly drunk on his Stag Night seems awful. And, to top it all off, not only has Sherlock picked specific spots where they’ve found bodies together (for him, this is Actually Sentimental), Sherlock didn’t invite anyone else, and John doesn’t mind at all. It’s all more than a bit Not Good. 

__________

 

John does end up getting a bit more light-headed than he had anticipated, which gives him a little encouragement. Sherlock is on the other side of the bar, people watching, taking in data, whatever that giant brain of his normally does, and John is putting shots into both of their beers, taking a few extra himself. It certainly isn’t any worse than Sherlock drugging him, and he just wants him to relax. He’s been obsessively planning a wedding, he could have a drink. 

In no time at all, Sherlock has gone from completely fine to willing to brawl with anyone who crosses his path. He starts arguing with a man about tobacco ash and John has to physically pull him away. It’s a feat, considering how drunk John has gotten in the last thirty minutes. John decides it’s time to call a cab and go back to Baker St. 

Inside the cab, it’s quiet and serene. The blurred lights of London stream passed them, and Sherlock looks entirely soft and beautiful. John smiles at him and Sherlock smiles crookedly back, then lets out a giggle. It’s fantastic and stupid.  
“How did I get this drunk?” Sherlock asks. He’s laughing, so he doesn’t mind it.  
“I helped. You’ve been doing nothing but plan my wedding, idiot.”  
“Did you drug me?” Sherlock covers his mouth in mock surprise.  
“You’ve done worse,” John replies.  
“Fair.”  
They both laugh.  
“I missed this,” Sherlock says. He wags a finger in the space between himself and John. John takes it to mean “I missed time with you” or something similar.  
“Yeah? Do you mean after or before you came back?”  
“Both. Always,” Sherlock says, then sighs. His eyes flutter shut. “I’m tired, John,” Sherlock says.  
“That’s fine. We’re almost home.”  
“Yes, you’re home,” Sherlock says quietly, his eyes still shut.  
John has to pull him out of the cab and pay the fare, it isn’t the first time and he’s sure it won’t be the last time. 

They make it to the stairs, and then promptly give up. John figures it’s far enough anyhow. They fall asleep against each other on the stairs. It’s comfortable enough because they’re drunk. John thinks another hand finds his as they fall asleep, but he can’t be sure. Sherlock keeps mumbling nonsense and John is too tired to attempt to understand what he’s saying. It feels peaceful.  
Just as he’s about to lose consciousness John hears a yelp behind him.  
“Oh, I thought you said you’d be out late!” Mrs. Hudson says.  
“Ah, Hudders,” Sherlock grumbles. “What time is it?”  
“You’ve only been out two hours,” she replies.  
Well, he hasn’t been drinking much in the past year, not after Sherlock died. He’d forgotten how to hold his liquor. Sherlock sits up quickly, the pokes at John’s back.  
“John come on, I’ve got scotch upstairs.”  
The idea of getting even drunker with Sherlock is utterly fascinating. He’s seen Sherlock tipsy, but not drunk. And they’ve somehow never been drunk together. It’s terrifying and wonderful at the same time.  
John puts his palm to the wall for balance, then pushes himself up and climbs the stairs after Sherlock. 

He looks around 221b and takes it in. The way he had collapsed under the weight of his love and of his sadness here is almost unbearable. And Sherlock is in front of him, pouring them glasses of aged scotch and looking as beautiful as ever. Sherlock’s hair falls lightly against the nape of his neck, and as he turns to hand John his glass, he wobbles a little. It’s fairly adorable and the pain in John’s chest that would ache all the time when Sherlock did something wonderful (which had been fairly often) was returning. It made him both happy and sad at once. 

“Here you are,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly as he took a sip of his own drink. Sherlock then proceeded to plop into his chair and nod at John’s. John smiled into his glass.  
“We should play a game,” John says.  
“What game?”  
“I know one. You’ll like it. I give you clues and you guess the answer.”  
John looks around the room until he finds scrap paper and a pen.  
“Write the name of a celebrity or someone else we would both know, or an object, and then stick it on my forehead and I have to guess who it is. Same with you.”  
“Alright,” Sherlock says. 

Feeling very pleased with himself, John writes ‘Sherlock Holmes’ on the piece of paper and presses his fingers against Sherlock’s forehead. It’s smooth and warm, and John fights not to let his fingers slide down to Sherlock’s cheek. Sherlock writes something on his own paper with his tongue sticking out just slightly, then sticks the paper onto John’s head.  
“All set. You go,” John says.  
“And I’m just asking you questions until I figure out who it is on my forehead?”  
“Yes.”  
“Okay, am I a human?”  
“Sometimes.”  
“It has to be one or the other.”  
“Yes.”  
“Am I nice?”  
“Ish.”  
“Am I clever?”  
“I’d say so.”  
“Am I important?”  
“To some people.”  
“Do ‘people’ like me?”  
“Not really you tend to rub them up…” John pauses, then laughs at his own slip of the tongue. You tend to rub them the wrong way.”  
“Am I the current King of England?”  
John begins to laugh, shaking his head. He leans back in his chair and just takes in all of Sherlock. It’s stupid how beautiful he is. John wants to touch his throat softly, letting his fingers glide back, to the back of Sherlock’s head. He’s too drunk, and so is Sherlock. He’s waited so long though. 

When Sherlock was dead, he used to tell himself all the time, that if he could have him back for just one minute, that he’d tell him how much he loved him, how he’d wanted him since the beginning. But it wasn’t even about just that. He wanted to fall asleep next to Sherlock, to kiss him when he woke up, wash him in the shower when he inevitably fell into the Thames again, take his shivering body and warm it. He wanted to protect him, and Sherlock was not the type to seem to need protected. 

_“You know I’d never let anyone hurt you, right?”_

The memory comes and goes easily, but it means something more now.  
It’s painful now, this wanting. 

“You know we don’t have a king?” John asks.  
“Don’t we?”  
“No.”  
John leans forward, just a tad too far, and lets his hand rest on Sherlock’s knee. He lets it rest there. _“I don’t mind,” he says, gazing at Sherlock. Sherlock quirks up an eyebrow, possibly confused, possibly asking if it’s plausible that what he thinks is happening, is happening. John licks his lips. “I don’t,” he repeats. He lets his hand rise up Sherlock’s leg just the smallest fraction more, and watches Sherlock’s face the whole time. Sherlock finally seems to understand. He puts down his drink, then covers John’s hand with his own. It’s a little cold from the glass. They stay this way for a few seconds, breathing heavily, wondering if this could really be happening. They’re drunk but they understand what is passing between them. A long string of years lost and words whispered connects. “Any time…” Sherlock trails off. John nods, the heaviness from drinking letting the feeling sink in deeper. His other hand reaches to the neck, into the curls sitting at the back of the head. John leans in, and Sherlock meets him more than half-way. John is kissing him, this impossible should be dead man, and nothing has felt more normal or sane in his entire life. The most wonderful part is that Sherlock is kissing him back, touching his shoulders, pushing against him. John leans back in his chair and gasps lightly as Sherlock climbs part way into his chair with him. Sherlock whispers John’s name time and time again. Did you know I love you did you know I waited for you did you know I was eating myself raw and whole because you were not here did you know I drank myself to death did you know I would have waited forever if I’d known you were coming back, is that why you didn’t tell me? Did you know? Well, you know now. “I waited, I would have waited longer, I just didn’t know,” John breathes._

 

“I don’t mind,” John says.  
Sherlock is leaned back in his chair, smirking and shaking his head into his glass. He looks John in the eye, laughs a bit.  
“Any time,” he replies.  
“Okay, my turn. Am I a woman?”  
“Yes,”  
“Am I…pretty? This,” John says, pointing to his forehead.  
“Beauty is a social construct based entirely on childhood impressions, influences, and role models.”  
“Yeah, but am I a pretty lady?”  
“I don’t know. I don’t know who you’re supposed to be.”  
“You picked the name!”  
“I picked it from the papers.”  
“You’re really not getting the hang of this game are you, Sherlock?”  
John leans back in his chair and looks sleepily to Sherlock. They’re both incredibly wasted and Sherlock keeps rubbing at his eyes.  
“Sorry, dunno…” Sherlock trails off, then looks back up. He looks serious all of the sudden, like he’s had an ephiphany.  
“John!” He says, quietly but urgently.  
“Yeah?” John asks. He’s fairly certain if he had to move much from this chair he’d vomit, and that would be quite embarrassing.  
Sherlock leans forward again, about to speak. John is only vaguely aware of footsteps on the stairs.  
“Boys, you’ve got one!” Mrs. Hudson calls.  
There’s a woman in the room now, black hair and a nurse’s uniform. Nurses. Mary is a nurse. John begins to feel somewhat ill, and only partially from the alcohol. 

 

The nurse tells them a story, though John can’t be entirely sure what of as he’s half asleep, possibly snoring even. He wishes he cared. Sherlock’s arm is around him at one point, of that he’s certain because it’s all he can concentrate on. 

_“What would you say if I told you I wanted you,” Sherlock asks, head tilted slightly.  
“I’d say, I’m here if you want me.”_

_Sherlock’s arm slips away._

“John! John the game is…is something!”  
John realizes he’s been dreaming.  
“Is on!” He replies, fully pleased with himself.  
“Yes, that!”

 

__________

 

They take a cab with Tessa and arrive at a dead man’s apartment. John isn’t sure what they’re supposed to be looking for but Sherlock seems to have a decent idea—that is—until he falls over. And vomits.  
“That’s it, I’m calling the police,” the landlord says, despite Tessa’s protests. 

Sherlock sits up, his eyebrows furrowing.  
“We’re going to be arrested?” He asks.  
“Apparently, I don’t know…we are publicly drunk,” John replies, and then begins to laugh. Sherlock joins in, running a hand down his face.  
“We’ll be handcuffed together again,” Sherlock says.  
“That was not a good night,” John replies.  
“But you held my hand,” Sherlock says. John can barely keep his eyes open, and neither can Sherlock it seems. John smiles, shakes his head.  
“Yeah, I did.”

 

__________

 

In the back of the cop car, they are alone save for the policeman in the front, but they’re separated by bars, so it’s fine. John’s head is pounding a little, and he’s still completely wasted. Images are going in and out.  
Sherlock looks at him, hair wild and eyes soft.  
“John, I miss you. I miss you all the time,” he says quietly, looking wrecked. Sherlock then buries his face in the crook of John’s neck. “I miss you all the time,” he repeats into John’s skin. John runs a hand through Sherlock’s hair.  
“I haven’t gone anywhere,” he replies. Sherlock has placed a hand on John’s knee, and John is only vaguely aware that they’re basically cuddling in the back of a cop car, and that that is probably Not Good. He can’t seem to care. Maybe it’s because he’s drunk, or maybe it’s because he’s in love. It doesn’t matter.  
“Yes you have, you’ve gone away.”  
John doesn’t know what he means but Sherlock sounds so sad, and he’s never heard him sound like this before, it’s sort of scary.  
“I’m right here,” John says, and he finds himself pulling Sherlock closer. 

John doesn’t remember most of this in the morning. 

 

__________

 

The wedding is beautiful; save for two things Sherlock does that make John want to die.  
“So know this: today you sit between the woman you have made your wife and the man you have saved—in short, the two people who love you most in all this world.”

John can feel the pain directly from these words. He doesn’t want to look at Sherlock at all and yet that’s all he wants to do.  
“If I try to hug him, stop me,” John says to Mary. She pats his hand.  
“Certainly not.”

Then, later, Sherlock saves Sholto’s life which is far too much for John. Just seeing them both in the same room made him feel strange yet content.  
“We wouldn’t do that, would we? We would NEVER do that to John Watson,” Sherlock calls to Sholto through the door. John is thankful he can’t see Sherlock’s face.  
Once inside Sholto’s room, John puts a hand on James’ shoulder.  
“Am I your doctor or not?”  
James smiles, nods. 

It’s his wedding day. 

 

On the dance floor, Sherlock tells him he’s going to be a father. It’s rather strange, how Sherlock could know before himself, or more importantly, before Mary. It’s a scary thing to know, though they had planned to have children. It’s all so soon, is all. Later, Mary will tell him it’s going to be fine and they’ll laugh on the beach about it.  
Right now, he looks to Sherlock, who is smiling but looks devastatingly sad. John looks away. He can’t try to understand what that look means, because if he knew what it meant, it’d ruin everything. 

 

__________

 

**The hands pull at the curtains, tired and numb. The fingers are starting to look blue and purple. He pulls a blanket over his shoulders.  
** **He needs to stop looking out the window. No one is going to come back.  
** **He made peace with this long ago—and yet.  
**He paces over to the kitchen table. There is a cold cup of jasmine tea on it. He bought the tea a long time ago at an outdoor market in Tokyo, where he had been for only three days.****

**The market had been loud and colorful, meats hanging and vegetables steaming in tubs, tea being sold and tea was something he had always understood, and so he had bought the tea and when he had gone back to his room that night he had made a cup and though the taste hadn’t reminded him of any familiar feeling, the warmth had. The steam had lifted into his nose and cleared his sinuses and that was the only way he had realized he had caught a cold from two days before when he had fallen into the Ogouchi Reservoir trying to climb a tree to get a better view of his surroundings. He had had a cold and his back was sore from where he’d landed on it.**

**Now the jasmine tea tasted of blood on a bitten tongue, scraped knuckles, a bruised back. He sighs into the lukewarm liquid, wraps fingers around the mug. It’s certainly not the same as the night in Tokyo. Nothing will be like it was before Tokyo. Why should it? He was only there for three days.**

**The clock ticks, and he thinks he needs to leave so that his world is not only different shades of light blue. He is starting to miss orange and red, and especially dark green. Blue was good for a long time, but blue is all he sees and all he feels and it is getting cold in his mind, the memories freezing over, the same ones playing on a loop over and over.** **But where would he go? There is only one place he wants to go, and it isn’t a possibility.  
** **Where he wants to go is dark yet warm. It is the place where he tucked his head into the other man’s neck and cried because he did not want to leave. Unfortunately, he had to if he was going to survive himself and so he had picked himself up and gone. But that warm dark place was all that he had wanted, and all that he had thought of for the duration of his absence. Upon returning, none of it mattered because the other man was gone (on his own fantasy) and that was fine, of course. And now everything was light blue.  
** **But he does have to leave this room. Or he will not make it another night and so he puts on his jacket, the one he doesn’t wear often, the one he wears when he doesn’t want to be recognized, the one with the brown leather that lands at his hips and lets himself out of his apartment.  
It’s just starting to get dark. It’s been grey all day so the sky isn’t changing much in hue, just getting darker. **

**He wanders for a long time.  
** **He ends up in a part of the city which he recognizes but only vaguely. Maybe he was here six years ago, before he met the other man, before he Killed It. Maybe he’d been here when he was stoned in the middle of another grey afternoon. He pulls a cigarette out of his jacket. It’s the last one in the pack. He realizes his pants are very lose around his waist. He hasn’t been eating as much, and the cigarettes don’t help. But it’s fine. He lights the cigarette then looks up. He stares at the roof of a brick building. Though he can’t remember exactly when he’s been here before, he knows he has and he knows he can get to the top of that roof. He heads towards the building, then circles it until he finds the entrance. The door is unlocked.  
He pushes it open slowly, and it creaks. It hurts his ears. **

**The place is becoming clearer now, but not altogether there. It’s warm here, in this memory, and sunny. He looks around, lets the cigarette drop to the cement. He puts it out with his right heel. He sees a door to his right, and knows this is the door to the stairs. He tries the handle, but it’s locked. It’s a simple enough fix. He’s broken into many places. All it takes is a few well-placed pins. The door swings open.  
He smiles smugly to himself. This place is comforting somehow. **

**He takes the stairs two at a time, and after picking the lock on a second door he feels the breeze hit him. He takes in his surroundings and then he remembers.**

**This is where he was the day after his first suicide attempt at twenty-one. He’d been doing a lot of coke but he’d tried to kill himself with pills (the first time). He came here after he’d woken up the next morning. He’d been more disappointed that he’d gotten the dosage wrong. He was a chemist, after all.**

**This was where Victor had told him to stop being such a child. That the world was not all about him and his sadness and everyone was sad. This was where Victor had said that he wanted him to meet his girlfriend. They all had girlfriends, it seemed. Victor had said, “You know, you’re okay Sherlock. Funny, even.”  
** **They’d both cracked a smile. He still wanted to die, but he supposed there had to be a reason he’d lived.  
** **And it was so stupid. He’d tried to die over a boy.  
** **What a stupid thing to die over.  
** **He had promised himself never to do that again.  
** **Which, really, was the only reason he was alive now.  
**But this place was where he said he’d try to be decent to himself before he let anyone else have him. He hasn’t been doing a very good job. But he can keep trying.****

**He doesn’t reach for another cigarette. Instead, he sits on the edge of the roof, staring out and taking in the lights of the city. It’s beautiful. He doesn’t know why but he’s crying and the breeze is colder on his cheeks because of it. It’s a decade and a half later and he’s still crying over unrequited love and the fact that he has no idea how to love himself. He knows how to love plenty. He loves so much it feels like he’s burning all the time. But he has no idea how to transport that into something useful. It doesn’t make sense like chemistry or language or the map of London. It has no rhyme or reason. It just is. It’s awful.**

**John was married two days ago and he’d foolishly let himself hold out hope until the last possible second.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the bold is sherlock's perspective. i didn't think i'd be adding anything from him in this story, but it just sort of happened.


	14. Chapter 14

Mexico is very hot. It’s humid too, but John doesn’t mind so much when he kisses Mary’s chest and belly at night and he can taste the salt from the ocean. He tastes tequila and lime on her bottom lip when he sucks there, and her thighs are damp from the heat when he touches her.  
He is happy here, and his wife’s eyes hold a world of possibilities.  
He is happy here.  
The strangeness of feeling loss and gain in one complete and fluid motion is there; but he is happy—despite it. 

__________

 

 

They arrive home after hours of travel. Mary had fallen asleep with her head on John’s shoulder when the plane had landed and they had arrived back in London. 

“What do you think of the name Ruby?” Mary asks, hanging up her coat.  
“It’s nice. Though I haven’t been giving names much thought yet. It’s all happened so quickly,” John replies. He sits down on their couch, and holds out a hand to Mary. She takes it and sits down next to him, head resting on his shoulder.  
“I suppose it has. I wonder when I would have had enough sense to take a pregnancy test if Sherlock hadn’t said anything.” 

They both smile a bit at this. John turns on the television and they fall asleep quickly, too jet lagged and sun burnt to make it to bed. 

 

__________

 

It seemed that every time Mary brought up a new baby name it drove John crazy. Which, did not make any sense, of course. Perhaps it was because he couldn’t seem to imagine this child actually existing. He couldn’t seem to grasp the idea that his life was changing so drastically. His life had been at a standstill for so long before he had met Mary (and in so many ways) that somehow having what he supposedly wanted and needed was far too overwhelming.  
Being content would have made much more sense.  
But the truth was that he was bored. Which pastel yellow the baby’s room would be didn’t seem to matter all that much, and it was somehow worse than all the wedding planning. Maybe because Sherlock had just done all the wedding planning. 

More truthfully than being bored by domesticity was that he also missed Sherlock, which was very annoying and wholly ridiculous and John knew very much that this did not make him a very good husband/soon to be father.  
Mary knew all this too, as she missed nothing. Mary was far too brilliant. They had ended up arguing more and more because of this boredom. 

So of course when Mrs. Whitney asked John to go find her son in a crack den, John was more than happy to go. 

Mary drives, and there is a familiar adrenaline rush as John walks into the building that doesn’t feel quite right without Sherlock with him. 

A man tries to stop him, but John easily gets past him and heads upstairs.  
He finds Isaac on a dirty mattress near the back of the room, sweating and shaking. He’s only about twenty. John sometimes forgets how early these things can happen. Isaac definitely needs a doctor.  
“Isaac, it’s Doctor Watson, from next door. I’ve come to get you out of here,” John says, placing his palm against Isaac’s forehead.  
“Oh, John,” a voice behind him says. “Have you come for me too?”  
It’s Sherlock, wearing an old hooded sweatshirt and sweatpants. He needs to shave, and there’s dirt smeared across his face. 

John can’t believe his eyes. He thinks maybe he’s imagining it but he knows he’s not and tries not to think about _Why is Sherlock in a drug den?_  
He sighs. He turns back to Isaac and hulls him off of the mattress.  
“Sherlock, you’d better get up and follow me. If you don’t I’ll just come back in here and drag you out myself.”  
“I really don’t think you could do that right now.”  
“Really? I’m pretty angry right now, I think I would do just fine.”  
“Yes, you are angry. But I’m also high.”

Sherlock does follow him out, shockingly.  
Isaac goes back to his mother, and Sherlock Holmes pisses in a jar. 

 

__________

 

“Why would you do this, Sherlock? I don’t understand why you’re using again.”  
“Oh, well, maybe you didn’t understand the first twenty times I told you: IT’S FOR A CASE!” Sherlock yells in the back of the cab. John had insisted on taking him back to Baker St.  
“Even if that were somehow, even remotely true, you could, you know, fake using. But no you’re actually willingly shooting up.”  
“He would know if I were faking!”  
“THEN GET A BETTER PLAN!” John yells. He’s sure the cabbie is disturbed at this point but it doesn’t matter much.  
As the cab stops outside of Baker St. John all but pushes Sherlock out of the cab.  
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Sherlock mutters. Sherlock fixes the door handle.  
“My brother is here. He doesn’t even know he’s doing it.”

John has never seen Mycroft in such a non-composed state. Sherlock bent Mycroft’s arm back, and it would have been humorous if Sherlock wasn’t high out of his mind. 

And John understands that this Magnussen case is extremely dangerous. Possibly the most dangerous that Sherlock has worked.  
“What, are you trying to put me off?”  
“God, no, I’m trying to recruit you,” Sherlock says. He smiles wistfully at John. His curls are matted to his head and his face is still dirty, but he looks like himself and he looks wonderful, really. 

John stands in the hall, waiting for Sherlock to come out. When the door opens it’s not Sherlock. It’s a woman. A very pretty woman, in one of Sherlock’s button ups. The white one, the one he’d wear in the summer. The one he’d roll the sleeves up on when it was particularly hot, unbuttoned to the third, the one he’d worn one afternoon when he’d actually had a beer with John and had fallen asleep on the couch after being up for two days after a case. His curls had stuck to his forehead in his sleep from the heat.  
And now Janine was wearing it.  
“Janine?” John asks. He’s sure he can’t mask the shock on his face. Or the hurt. His heart is pounding and it shouldn’t be.  
“Oh, John, I’m sorry,” she says, and laughs a bit. This can’t possibly be what it looks like.  
She starts talking about making coffee and the diner downstairs. John can’t really hear her. His head is pounding with the sound of his heart.

Sherlock being with someone else, actually being with someone else, doing something as ordinary as dating a girl he met at his best friend’s wedding, it just doesn’t seem like a possibility.  
At least Irene had made sense. If Sherlock had loved her, (and John was fairly sure that he had) it made sense. She had been intense, beautiful, brilliant, and cruel. Just as Sherlock could be. And at least then they’d had that common ground: being in love with a dead person. An ode to their dramatics.  
And Janine was beautiful. She was funny and on the days that John had spent time with her with Mary, she’d been charming, though a bit much at times, but that was more John’s own problem than Janine herself.  
John would have thought Sherlock to have thought the same though: Janine being a bit much. She was bubbly and giggly and Sherlock was anything but.  
Yet here she was in the middle of the home John had made with Sherlock, with nothing on but a shirt that didn’t belong to her.  
Janine follows Sherlock into the bathroom, and John swallows hard, licks his lips, is vaguely certain he tastes blood.  
Sherlock has never been interested in anyone, yet he’s naked with a woman in his bathroom. John wonders where Janine has kissed him, can’t help himself.  
Does she kiss his lower neck, the notches of his spine?  
Does he kiss her there as well?  
It’s hateful.

They both come out and Sherlock looks less beautiful now, more like confusion and denial, more of what he looked like when he came back from the dead except that just makes John feel like a horrible person because why shouldn’t Sherlock be happy?  
John watches them kiss, the most likely and unlikely pair in the world.  
He’s married. He’s having a child. His world still falls apart anyway, despite the facts. He wishes he wasn’t so terrible all the time. 

 

__________

 

Charles Augustus Magnussen is one of the foulest creatures that John has ever had to meet. Possibly worse than Moriarty. Moriarty had been an evil that was chaotic, and simply did not care what was left behind. Magnussen was far more personal. Though Moriarty had been personal with John, he hadn’t been with everyone he terrorized. He hadn’t wanted power. He’d just wanted destruction.  
It’s hard not to want to be violent with Magnussen.  
So John goes with Sherlock easily to try to break into Magnussen’s place of work.  
He expects Sherlock to get in easily with a plan. He always has a plan.  
What he doesn’t expect is that Janine is part of this plan. 

Everything becomes much clearer, after John sees the ring.  
The moment unearths something in John’s chest. It moves lightly at first and then stings fiercely.  
Everything becomes clearer and one hundred times worse all at once.  
Sherlock is proposing to a woman for a case.  
A woman is in love with him and he’s using her in the worst way imaginable.  
Something falls into place and it hurts more than most things.  
“Did you just propose to a woman to get into her boss’ office?”  
“Yes, so?”  
“So, she loves you!” John says, wondering if he’s hiding the disbelief or the hurt well at all.  
“Human error,” Sherlock says blankly, not looking at John. Sherlock stares straight ahead as the elevator moves up, and John sighs heavily, feeling confused as to why he’s carrying a cup of coffee, why he’s moving in an elevator, why he’s in love with two people at once.  
Sherlock can understand emotion just fine. He’s shown it all the time. But what is real and what isn’t is not always clear and John can’t help but wonder if everything Sherlock had said at his wedding could be true, if all his folding of serviette napkins was panic or the need to be in control.  
John sips his coffee. It’s too hot, though he isn’t sure he can feel it. 

 

__________

 

Janine has been knocked out, and it’s definitely not from fainting. John collects her vitals and then hears a shot come from the closed door.  
The room Sherlock is in. John’s eyes widen and he runs.  
He bursts through the doors, trying to take in his surroundings, his gun resting in his hand.  
Magnussen is knocked over, awry on the floor.  
He turns, sees Sherlock.  
John kneels, sees the wound.  
This will not be happening again.  
It just isn’t going to.  
Sherlock dying again would not be worth anything in the world.  
“Who did this?” John demands.  
Magnussen fixes his glasses, just stares at him, almost smirking. It doesn’t make any sense. 

 

__________

 

They won’t allow John in the back of the ambulance, so he takes a cab. It seems to take far too long. He calls Mary on the way. She answers, and says she’ll be there as soon as possible.

John waits outside of Sherlock’s operating room. He shuts himself down. He doesn’t let himself imagine the worst. He doesn’t let himself imagine relief.  
He counts the tiles in the ceiling until the doctor comes out.  
“He’s pulled through. Just barely. But he’ll be okay.”

Sherlock is unconscious when John finally gets to see him. He’s pale and though John tries to keep himself composed it doesn’t work well. He swallows down and seats himself next to Sherlock.  
“You’re an idiot. For so many reasons.”  
John takes Sherlock’s hand. It’s cold and he hates it. It reminds him too much of James lying in a hospital bed.  
His phone rings. It’s Mary.  
“Yes,” John says. It comes out as more of a sigh than anything else.  
“I’m here,” Mary replies. 

John goes out into the hall and he sees her walking towards him.  
“He’s pulled through,” John says, and he hugs her. He’s smiling, he’s realized.  
I’m not going to lose him again.

__________

 

Naturally he goes missing.  
Sherlock leaves the hospital and doesn’t tell anyone why. John suspects he’s trying to track the shooter but why would he do so without him?  
It’s only a matter of a few hours until John gets the phone call. 

“Do you trust me?” Sherlock asks. He sounds nervous somehow.  
“Yes, of course.”  
“I need you to come to Leinster Gardens.”

 

Sherlock grabs him by the arm and puts him in a corner. He messes up his hair and turns his coat collar up.  
“No matter what happens in the next few minutes. Just stay here. Please.”  
“What’s going on.”  
“I’m just…I’m just sorry,” Sherlock says, and walks farther down the corridor. 

Sherlock is speaking. John hears her name and his throat closes up. 

She does look sad when he walks past her. Their shoulders brush momentarily. So informal for someone so intimate. He follows Sherlock out the door. He does not look back at her. 

 

__________

 

John has no idea who she is. He is in love with some part of her. Or, maybe, she doesn’t even exist. She’s a ghost.  
She hands him her past in the palm of her hand. It’s a USB. It’s supposed to tell John who she really is.  
“If you love me at all, don’t look at it.”  
“Why?”  
“Because you won’t love me after.”

There are moments when her face becomes reptilian. Her eyes stare at him and the wrinkles at her mouth form patterns which John cannot follow.  
Sherlock’s heart decides to try to fail again.  
Mary leaves. 

__________

 

A week later, John leaves Baker St. too. He goes to the nearest pub and gets himself blind drunk. This is how he’s learned to handle things and though he knows it isn’t good it’s what he has.  
Sherlock finds him, of course.  
Sherlock drags him home and puts him to bed.  
“She wasn’t supposed to be like that,” John whispers. He’s repeating himself, he knows.  
“I know.”  
Sherlock should not have to take care of him this way. He is hurt himself. They’ve both been torn apart by her.  
Sherlock closes the door.  
“And neither were you,” John says to Sherlock, to himself, to no one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm so sorry this is so??? not great??? i didn't rly want to write this chapter, mainly because it's just following the episode. but!! the next chapter will be not garbage and more of my own take which will be fun. ok also, i told myself this has to be finished by the end of july. because if it takes me more than a year to write this like.......that is just....so bad lmao.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you don't like Bad Mary this is not the fic for you! just a fair warning. :3

It seems this small black object holds his life in place. 

“You don’t have to look at it, you know. I can watch it first if you…” Sherlock trails off, rubs at the side of his face.  
John snorts, smiles, shakes his head.  
“No I really don’t think so.”  
“Me too.”

John takes one final breath and slides the USB into the port.  
They wait thirty seconds, nothing comes up.

John tries again. Still nothing.  
He starts laughing, then covers his mouth with a hand.  
“There’s nothing on it,” John says. He turns to Sherlock, who only stares back, nothing to offer.  
“She didn’t think I’d actually look at it. Or, she’d hoped. Oh, my God.”  
“I’m sorry John.” Sherlock meets his gaze. “I told you to trust her, because she needed to see that you would. I don’t know who she is but we can figure it out together.”

 _I keep falling in love with ghosts_ , John thinks. Those who are dead, those who do not exist. He thinks of Tessa, the nurse. People fall in love with ghosts all the time. 

 

__________

 

John offers to patch up Sherlock’s bullet wound, and Sherlock accepts, though a bit hesitantly. 

They sit in the bathroom, on the edge of the tub.  
Sherlock unbuttons his shirt, and John rolls up his sleeves.  
“Does it hurt at all?” John asks as he begins unravelling the bandage. “And don’t lie to me. It doesn’t do any good.”  
“A bit,” Sherlock replies.  
“Okay. I have Paracetamol.”  
After removing the bandage, John inspects. This feels strangely intimate, and invasive somehow. But he knows Sherlock won’t have anyone else do it and he’s still too sore to do it himself. It’s only been a week.  
“It’s healing well,” John says. He takes ointment on his hands and puts it on the wound. Sherlock recoils at first and then manages. 

It’s strange to stare into the bullet wound, to see the impact. To see the damage that Mary has done physically. John takes the gauze and tape and patches the wound. Then he moves to wrap the bandage around Sherlock’s torso.  
“Sherlock, you have to take your shirt off so I can…” John says, unsure of how to ask.  
“Oh. No, I can wrap that myself it’s fine,” Sherlock says hurriedly.  
“I don’t think so, you’re probably very sore.”  
Sherlock looks away, and then all around, anywhere but at John.  
“What is it?”  
“Fine, for God’s sake just do it,” Sherlock replies. He takes his shirt off and presses it into his lap.  
“All right,” John says, and begins to wrap the bandage around Sherlock’s torso.  
As John bends around Sherlock to continue wrapping he sees, and he understands why Sherlock had been wary. He pulls back and looks Sherlock in the eye.  
“What is that?”  
“It’s nothing, it’s fine,” Sherlock says in a hushed tone, still refusing to look at John.  
“Turn around.”  
Sherlock rolls his eyes but does so. John takes in the extent of Sherlock’s back. There are pink scars all over his back. They look like they may have been quite deep at one point.  
“What happened?” John asks. He runs a hand over the scars. He hates them.  
“They are from when I was…abroad,” Sherlock says.  
“Who did this?” John asks. His voice feels raw.  
“Can you please finish?” Sherlock asks, and his voice is so quiet that John doesn’t ask any more questions.  
He finishes bandaging, trying not to let his hands linger.  
“All done.”  
“Thank you,” Sherlock says quietly. Sherlock eyes him, mouth slightly open, as if about to say something else.  
“What is it?” John asks.  
“Nothing.”  
Sherlock pulls his shirt on, buttons it quickly.  
“Goodnight, John.”  
“Wait,” John says. “Don’t you want these?”  
“What?” Sherlock asks. He looks flustered and exhausted.  
John goes into the cabinet and takes three pills from the bottle of pain killers.  
“Here, you said you were hurting.”  
“Right…”  
Sherlock takes the pills and then leaves.  
John is fairly sure he smells cigarette smoke later, but doesn’t say anything about it. 

 

The next morning John waits for Sherlock to come out of his bedroom. He sips coffee slowly, trying to process still what the last two weeks have brought him.  
Sherlock comes out of his room in his robe, hair wild.  
“Do you ever plan on telling me what happened when you were abroad?” John asks.  
Sherlock sits down at the kitchen table.  
“Yes. What do you want to know?”  
“Everything. Start at the beginning.”  
“I knew I had to die so that nobody else would. So Mycroft and I planned it. I went to Japan first. I was there for three days,” Sherlock says. He pauses, then looks up from his hands. “I missed you,” Sherlock whispers. He looks down again.  
John doesn’t realize the words at first. When he does, he laughs and it comes out all wrong.  
“No, Sherlock. I missed you too.”  
Sherlock sighs.  
“I went a lot of places. The worst was when I went to America and when I went to Russia. In America I had to find a man named Sebastian Moran. He was Moriarty’s right hand but fled after he died. He was also the sniper pinned to you when I was on the roof. I wanted to kill him more than anyone else in Moriarty’s circle. He was in New Orleans, in the oldest bar in the country. That city is a dreadful place. The heat is unbearable, and the city breathes in a horrible heavy pattern. But, I bought him a drink in the bar then left him alone. Then I followed him back to Charles St. and into uptown. He lived in a house that must have been worth at least a few million quid. I broke in once he had gone upstairs. He had a bar in his bedroom. He made himself a drink. It was very quiet. And then…and then I snapped his neck. I’d killed in self-defense before but never like that. It was much more satisfying than I had imagined.”  
John stares at him, then takes in a deep breath.  
“Do you think differently of me now?” Sherlock asks.  
“Yes and no. Not differently in the way you think.”  
“In what way then?” Sherlock asks. He looks so hesitant to continue.  
“You came back…stronger than before.”  
“I don’t think so at all,” Sherlock says.  
“Go on,” John asks, wrapping his hands around his mug to give himself something to do.  
“In Russia…they caught me. I ran but it didn’t make much difference. They wanted to get information from me, so they…so they gave me those scars.”  
“They tortured you,” John confirms. He knows Sherlock won’t call it that, but that it’s exactly that.  
Sherlock nods.  
“Why didn’t you tell me? I mean I thought…I thought you were just off without me and you didn’t care whether you came back or not,” John’s throat constricts, and he tries clearing it.  
“I didn’t want you to know I’d gotten hurt. I just wanted to come back and let things fall back into place.”  
“They could have. I wish I hadn’t been so angry.”  
Sherlock laughs a little.  
“No, it couldn’t have.”  
John knows that it’s true.  
“You didn’t ever want to leave, did you?” John asks dumbly. He really hadn’t known at all. He should have known, but all he’d felt was hurt.  
“The only reason I didn’t take you with me was because you would have been a liability. And I don’t mean that you wouldn’t have been capable. I mean that I would have been distracted. Could you imagine if we were separated?”  
Sherlock looks at him, then away quickly. John is afraid to meet his gaze as well. It feels like so much. His heart is pounding and there shouldn’t be any reason for it. 

__________

 

He awakes at 1 am. They’ve fallen asleep in the living room.  
Sherlock is wide awake.  
The television is on and it’s quiet. It’s a western.  
Sherlock is unmoving, eyes wide, bulging and dark.  
“Sherlock, what is it?”  
Sherlock turns his head slowly, and thrusts his wrists out for John to see.  
“They hurt, they hurt….”  
“What hurts?”  
“My wrists…”  
John realizes that Sherlock is not in the room with him. It’s happened to John before too.  
“Where are you, Sherlock?”  
“In the room with no windows.”  
“Sherlock, you’re at home. You’re at Baker St.”  
John lays a hand gently over Sherlock’s.  
“John?”  
“Yeah?”  
Sherlock’s breathing becomes heavy, and he breathes through his nose.  
“You’re fine, you’re right here.”  
John wants nothing more than to pull Sherlock to his chest, but he knows that would be a terrible idea.  
“Are you back?” John asks.  
“Yes. I’m sorry you had to see that.”  
John laughs.  
“What are you kidding? After all the times I woke up screaming in the middle of the night?”  
Sherlock looks at him and nods.  
“It was the rope, wasn’t it?” John asks. He turns the television off.  
“Yes. It was. Thank you.”  
John thinks of all the times that Sherlock played him lullabies when he was having nightmares. It seems like nothing.  
It’s been a month and nothing is getting easier and Sherlock is burning him alive all over again.

 

__________

 

There is a day in August where London becomes unbearably hot. Sherlock lounges in his pajamas all day, alternating between complaining of boredom and complaining because of the heat. When it becomes unbearable John tells him to get dressed.  
“We’re going to dinner,” John says. It will get them into proper air conditioning if nothing else. 

They go to Angelo’s and it briefly reminds John of the first day they met. Sherlock looks so different now. Perhaps it is because John knows him now, but it’s also definitely because of the way Sherlock has aged in the last five years. It’s been a rapid aging for the both of them. 

When they had first met, Sherlock had been an ethereal type of beautiful. He had seemed foreign and strange and completely distracting.  
Now, he was beautiful because of the lines at his eyes.  
John couldn’t help but notice the same brightness of his eyes though. And the same sadness in them. 

“Have you heard from her recently?” Sherlock asks. It’s an unexpected question.  
“She texts me to update me about the baby.”  
“And how is the baby?”  
“Healthy.”  
“Good.”  
After a pause, John speaks again.  
“She keeps asking me to come home.”  
“Do you want to?” Sherlock asks.  
“Sometimes,” John answers truthfully. “Until I remember that she isn’t who I was married.”

They eat in a relatively comfortable silence. In the moment, John is content. He wonders what would happen if he tried to relive their first time in this restaurant.  
_Have you got a girlfriend, have you got a boyfriend, I haven’t got anyone either.  
I’ve got you. _

__________

 

“Mycroft has been searching. I think he’s close,” Sherlock says. They’re in the back of a cab, on the way back home after a case. It hadn’t taken long.  
John doesn’t reply but he wonders if it even matters who Mary is. If it would make it better. If he could forgive her. 

 

__________

 

John wakes up late on a Wednesday morning. He rubs at his eyes and then looks at his phone.  
Another text from Mary. He opens it.

_It’s a girl._

 

John can’t help himself when his throat constricts and he lets out a small sob.  
He really isn’t sure what to say back. He says the only thing he can think of.

_She’s going to be perfect._

__________

 

Living with Sherlock slowly becomes Home again. Sherlock will play the violin after dinner, and as the nights grow colder they light up the fireplace. They don’t go on many cases these days. Sherlock is entirely focused on Magnussen. They try to find out how Mary and Magnussen are connected.  
Sherlock sleeps much more often now.  
He used to stay awake for days at a time and now he keeps normal hours. John isn’t sure if this is Sherlock trying to show that he can behave or if his manner has changed much more than John had realized.  
John and Sherlock often fall asleep on the couch.  
Always hesitant to leave the other alone, not wanting to go to their own rooms.  
Maybe it’s because they are afraid of what one might do without the other there to watch over him. They are both so broken it seems like there is a lot of room for error.  
Or perhaps they’re both afraid that when they wake up, the other will be gone. 

Sherlock has begun to talk in his sleep. He curls himself into his robe and sleeps on his side and whispers in the darkness. John wonders what he’s dreaming about.  
He recalls the dreams he had when Sherlock was dead. The beautiful things his brain conjured up and used to torment him all the more.  
He can laugh at those dreams now, at least, as he watches Sherlock mutter in his sleep, face completely soft like it never is when awake.  
John knows if he stays here his love is only going to grow to the point of no return.  
He’ll want to live in a standstill and watch Sherlock speak in his sleep forever.  
In some ways he’s already doing so. 

He knows what Mary must be thinking. She knew he was in love with Sherlock and now he’s living with him again.  
Does she imagine that they fuck every night? That he’d possibly be able to do such a thing while still married?  
It’s a ridiculous thought, as it isn’t possible in any way and for so many reasons.  
Even if Sherlock did love him as John loved him, he’d never do a thing about it if he thought Sherlock might have thought he was a second choice.  
John had only ever needed one word, and he never would have strayed in the first place. 

 

__________

 

In November, Sherlock orders John’s favorite Indian takeout and gets a bottle of wine and when they have eaten and the bottle of wine has been poured out, Sherlock hands him the manila envelope. 

John knows what it is already. It’s all about Mary, who she is and what she’s done.  
“I’ve already read it,” Sherlock says. He sips his wine.  
“Alright.”  
John takes a deep breath then opens it. 

Her name is Amelia Romans and she was born January 11, 1978.  
She has killed over two hundred people.  
John himself had been a previous target.

“She was at the pool,” John whispers. Sherlock only nods.  
John is afraid he’s going to vomit.  
The panic is setting in rapidly.  
He wipes at his eyes. He would be embarrassed but he doesn’t particularly care.  
“So was anything real then? I mean, anything she ever said to me?”  
“I don’t know,” Sherlock says.  
John tries not to, but he does make it to the bathroom in time.  
He wretches into the toilet and lets himself sit on the cool tile for a while.  
Finally Sherlock comes in and makes him stand up.  
“Listen to me,” Sherlock says. “She worked for Moriarty, and we’re going to take her out. And save your child.”  
John breathes through his nose, and nods a few times.  
“I don’t want to go back to her,” John says. He hadn’t expected to, but he does.  
“You only will until the baby is born. John, look at me.”  
John does. Sherlock’s eyes are dark.  
“Do not let her know that you know who she is. You can’t.”  
“Of course,” John says. 

 

__________

 

John takes the bow out of his closet. He never gave it to Sherlock because it had seemed too intimate but now he doesn’t care much. He wants him to have it. It’s still wrapped.  
John goes downstairs with it to find Sherlock sitting beside the lit fireplace. His hands are under his chin, and his legs are crossed.  
“Happy Christmas,” John says, holding out the bow. He feels only slightly self-conscious.  
Sherlock takes it.  
“It was supposed to be given to you a long time ago but better late than never I suppose.”  
Sherlock unwraps the box precariously, as if afraid to rip the paper too forcefully. When he opens it he inspects it. Sherlock holds the bow lightly in his hands.  
“Thank you,” Sherlock says quietly. “I have something for you too. It’s on the mantel.”  
John doesn’t expect this but goes to the mantel.  
He pulls a copy of Piano Player by Kurt Vonnegut off the shelf. It’s worn and tearing. John opens it. It’s a signed copy.  
John smiles.  
“It’s his first novel. How did you get this?”  
“Connections…you know,” Sherlock replies as he smiles back, the somewhat wicked grin that John can recognize so easily as his heart.  
They both laugh a little. John shakes his head as he stares down at the signature. Sherlock is an impossible man.  
“Do we need to go over the plan again?” Sherlock asks abruptly.  
“No, no we don’t,” John says. He knows the plan inside and out.  
“Good.”  
John joins Sherlock next to the fireplace. Tomorrow they will go to Appledore and destroy the files on Mary. They can’t exist if his daughter is going to be safe. He’ll forgive Mary as sincerely as he can manage. They’ll take the laptop from Mycroft as a means of trade. It’s simple enough.


	16. Chapter 16

Christmas morning is strange. John wakes up in his bed and he can tell what time it is by the way the sunlight hits the walls. A trick he learned during his darkest time. He gets out of bed and immediately packs his things—there’s no use letting it linger.   
He is to tell Mary he has forgiven her and to stay with her until his daughter is born. He can’t let anything happen to her. 

 

__________

 

Sherlock drives them to his parent’s house. The drive is mostly silent, and it makes John uncomfortable.   
He is about to go pretend to still be in love with someone else.  
The ride seems to move at a glacial pace. They end up in the country side and trees brush past his view. When he can stand the silence no longer, he speaks.  
“What if she doesn’t believe me?”  
“She will because she’ll want to believe you.”  
“Sherlock, I don’t even know if she cares for me at all. She may not believe me.”  
“Then I suppose you’ll just have to be convincing. I’m sorry there doesn’t seem to be another way.”  
Sherlock doesn’t look away from the road.  
None of this would have been a problem if John could have just married a normal person, but of course that wasn’t an option for him. 

 

When they arrive, John tries to avoid Mary for as long as possible, as ridiculous as he knows it is. When he first meets her gaze, he gives her a stiff smile and then heads back round to the kitchen, where Mrs. Holmes hands him a glass of punch he immediately leaves on the counter.   
Sherlock leaves to go outside with Mycroft for what John is sure is a cigarette and he knows he has to go to Mary. 

John greets her, unsure of how to approach her. The USB in his back pocket feels heavy.   
“Oh, it’s been six months and now we’re going to talk?” Mary asks.   
It feels strange to look at her, to know that the woman he asked to marry him is not sitting in front of him, swollen and pregnant. That woman never existed.   
But of course she hadn’t, she had been a stand in. 

As John throws the USB in the fire, and holds his crying wife, he can’t help but wonder if the tears are real, if this too is a lie.   
As he holds Mary against him, he feels her belly pushed up against his abdomen. The thought of the little girl lying inside lets him smile a bit. 

__________

 

“Did you drug my pregnant wife?” John demands as they make their way outside. John had been under the impression that they were to just sneak out of the house and make off with Mycroft’s laptop.   
“She’ll be fine. Besides, how else did you think I was going to get this?” Sherlock asks, gesturing to the laptop. John throws his hands up and follows Sherlock, as always. 

 

__________

 

It is time stopping, hesitatingly amazing, how quickly things go so wrong.   
John can feel his eyes glaze over as Magnussen flicks his face, over and over and over.  
He doesn’t even mind, in a grim way.  
John feels Sherlock’s eyes close as the breech continues, and John only grins his angry grin and tilts his face. 

Sherlock’s palm digging into John’s belt, on John’s waist doesn’t register right away. None of it registers really, until the bright helicopter lights blind him and he raises his hands.  
He can see Magnussen lying in his own blood.  
“Sherlock, JESUS!” John yells.   
He can feel his heart pounding out, feel his stomach turning itself inside out, his eyes hurting but he keeps them open.  
John looks straight ahead, the wind blowing his hair in all directions.   
Sherlock’s coat flutters back and forth like a cape, as always. Sherlock turns, his face pale and revealing nothing. It doesn’t need to, the dead man next to them speaks volumes.  
“Give my love to Mary,” Sherlock says, gloved hands raised above his head.   
John can’t hear anything, he’s gone all white, and everything is like the first time they met only playing in reverse. John has been rescued instead of Sherlock. John’s gun lies a few feet away, now a murder weapon. It looks clean, brand new, as if it hadn’t been used before.

Later, after Sherlock has been arrested and John is at his old home with Mary waiting in the bedroom, John runs out the back door and vomits onto the lawn. The smell of freshly cut grass is strong. John sits down on the patch of grass, takes a few deep breathes, and tries not to think about how Sherlock gave his freedom for John’s life and happiness a second time.   
Sherlock has broken his heart several times over but the mending is like concrete. Sherlock continues to be impossible, to not make any sense. It was the biggest lie in the world to believe that Sherlock never cared for him. Sherlock’s body is physical proof of this. John does his best not to begin to sob heavily in his backyard. He pulls himself together and goes inside. 

When Mary asks what happened, John says “He did it for us, to keep you safe.” He isn’t sure what else he can say. 

 

__________

 

John begs Mycroft to let him see Sherlock, but Mycroft says he’s barely been able to see his little brother. John knows this must be a lie but has no way to prove it. He’s only told that Sherlock is given a mission as punishment. One that most likely, he will not return from. It’s possible, but even for Sherlock, the odds are not good. John doesn’t except this. Sherlock has avoided death so many times now it doesn’t seem to be a possibility for him. But he is allowed to say goodbye. Mary comes along because John is still following the plan even though none of it seems real anymore. If he can do anything else now, it will be to look after his daughter. 

Their car pulls up to the tarmac. Sherlock is waiting, standing with Mycroft.   
Mary hugs Sherlock and it’s as if he’s watching a film. Sherlock asks to speak to John alone and it feels like he’s watching his birthday video from when Sherlock was dead all over again. This time he doesn’t have a glass of scotch to comfort him. 

Sherlock tells John what John already knows.   
“For how long?” John asks.  
“My brother estimates six months. He’s never wrong.”  
“Then what?”  
Sherlock doesn’t have an answer.   
John’s legs feel numb, as do his hands and lips.   
“I can’t think of anything to say,” John says. He can think of many things to say but none of them seem correct. How do you tell the love of your life that you are sick of their narrow escapes of death and you wish they would just sit next you for a while?   
Sherlock looks sad, is the worst part of it. John realizes some part of Sherlock has always been sad, since the day they met, and it has mirrored his own sadness in full.   
“William Sherlock Scott Holmes, that’s the whole of it, if you were looking for baby names.”  
John can’t help but laugh.  
“We’re having a girl,” he replies.

“John, there’s something I’ve meant to say always and never have. Since it’s unlikely we’ll ever meet again I suppose I should say it now.”

John holds his breathe for what feels like hours. If it is what he thinks it may be, he almost doesn’t want to know. How could he respond properly? It would not be what Sherlock deserves.   
“Sherlock is actually a girl’s name.”  
John can’t feel anything anymore, save for the strange strangling sensation that is coming from his throat as he laughs at the terrible joke.  
“We’re not naming our daughter after you.”  
Sherlock shrugs.  
“Thought it could work.”

Sherlock Watson. Thought it could work. 

They shake hands. Sherlock’s ungloved hand holds John’s for four seconds, and it is completely wrong. Sherlock takes two steps back, watching John, then looks at his feet, then turns in full. He does not look back. 

John can feel his heart breaking all over again, for the second, third, fourth, thousandth time. John imagines so many things, all at once.

In one universe, John calls out to Sherlock.  
“No,” John says at first, then, “Wait.”  
Sherlock turns to look back, and John walks towards him, pulling him into his arms. He puts his mouth near Sherlock’s neck and kisses it tenderly, hoping he will understand. John pulls away but only just so to whisper into Sherlock’s ear.   
“You’re coming back to me, do you understand?”

 

In another universe, John calls out to Sherlock.  
“No,” John says at first, then, “Wait.”  
Sherlock turns to look back, and John walks towards him.  
They watch each other for a moment.  
“If you’re going to die again, you have to know that I’m in love with you,” John says in a low tone, his hands balled into fists.   
Sherlock’s mouth opens and then closes. Sherlock shakes his head. He does not love him back.

 

In another universe, John calls out to Sherlock.  
“No,” John says at first, then, “Wait.”  
Sherlock turns to look back, and John walks towards him.  
They watch each other for a moment.  
“If you’re going to die again, you have to know that I’m in love with you,” John says in a low tone, his hands balled into fists.  
Then, John steps closer, taking Sherlock’s face in his hands.  
“Do you understand, Sherlock?”  
“You love me?” Sherlock asks, his eyes wide, face crumpling between John’s palms.   
“Yes. I have since when we first met.”  
“This is far too cruel. This isn’t fair,” Sherlock replies. Sherlock kisses John in full, neither one caring who can see. “I love you,” Sherlock whispers through his teeth, it mostly sounds like breathing. He gets on the plane anyway, because he doesn’t have a choice.

 

In another universe, John sits down on the tarmac and lets himself go. 

 

Unimagined, and in his own universe, John watches Sherlock get onto the plane, his hands behind his back, his lips pursed in contemplation. Saying anything would not have been worth the pain, but it still is amazing how much of a coward John has been, even after all these years. 

__________

 

They are about to leave when the plane is turned around. It only takes four minutes.   
“What’s going on?” John asks Mycroft.   
“Moriarty,” Mycroft says simply.   
John doesn’t even say that it is impossible.

Sherlock takes the steps down the plane two at a time. He doesn’t stop walking until he’s directly in front of John, and beaming at him like he’s the sun. John smiles back. They must look ridiculous. 

 

__________

 

John awakes at two in the morning. His arm had been tucked around Mary’s belly. The bed is still warm but she is gone.   
John’s phone is ringing, somewhere. He pulls it off the night stand. It’s Sherlock.  
“Yes what is it have you found the source of the video?” John asks, suddenly wide awake.   
“You have to come to Baker Street immediately.”  
“Okay, let me just get dressed. I’ll tell Mary. I’ll be right over.”  
“You won’t be able to tell Mary,” Sherlock says. His voice sounds mechanical.   
“What do you mean?”  
“She’s gone.”

 

__________

 

John doesn’t sit still for the entire cab ride. He takes the stairs up to 221B two at a time and bursts through the door. Sherlock is fully dressed, sitting in his chair.   
“Sit down, John. Please.”  
“I don’t want to sit down. Where is Mary?”  
“I don’t know. Now just sit. Down.”  
Sherlock’s face looks contorted, not right. John sits down slowly.   
Sherlock holds up Mary’s mobile phone. John feels his head tilt to the right, can feel his eyebrows furrowing, his fingers starting to drum against the chair.  
“Why do you have that?” John asks, his breathing getting heavier.   
“We tracked the source of the video to this.”  
“What are you saying, she’s still working for Moriarty? He’s dead for Christ sake.”  
“You’re right, he is dead. She used this as a distraction. She used it as a means of escape. I don’t know where she is, but she’s gone.”  
“Well how do we find her?!” John yells, digging his nails into his chair.   
“I’m not sure you’ll be wanting to find her,” Sherlock replies, his face stiff.   
“Of course I want to find her, I NEED TO FIND HER SHE’S PREGNANT WITH MY CHILD!”   
John breathes in, then out. In, then out.   
Sherlock gets up from his chair, goes into the kitchen, and comes back out. He’s holding a folder, similar to the one that held the information to Mary’s past life. Had held the information on Amelia Romans. Sherlock hands the folder to John.  
“John, I’m so sorry,” Sherlock says softly. Sherlock returns to his chair, watching John carefully. “She left that for me. She told me to give it to you.”  
“She was here?” John asks. He wonders what his face must look like.   
“Yes.”  
John looks back at the folder. It’s a paternity test.

The baby isn’t his. 

“She told me she did it as…retribution. Her last name isn’t Romans. It’s Moran,” Sherlock says. John finds he’s staring at the mantel. He isn’t sure how long he’s been staring at it. He’s tired, and he can’t feel much of anything yet, but he knows for certain that in time, he will.  
John puts his head in his hands, pulling at his hair. He isn’t sure how hard he’s pulling, he can’t feel anything anyway.   
“Is anything about my life real? I can’t tell what’s real anymore.”

He lifts himself up out of his chair and makes his way towards the door, folder in hand.  
“John, where are you going?” Sherlock asks. John turns. Sherlock is pale, his face crinkled with worry.   
“I’m going back home, I have to be alone right now.”  
“I don’t think that’s wise,” Sherlock says. John shakes his head.   
John gets a cab, goes back to his make believe home.   
He falls asleep.

In the morning, he would have thought it was all a dream if he hadn’t seen the folder waiting for him on the night stand.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hair blurs vision, maybe I am here. Maybe I am not.
> 
> It’s cold against my back.  
> Maybe someone or something is watching me,  
> Playing on drum sets wearing animal masks in the corners of childhood vision.  
> Maybe someone or something is watching me,  
> Besides the wind.
> 
> -low clearance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for alcohol use

It comes like a heavy wave in a long and terrible storm. 

The first time John blacks out again, it is a bit like a false memory. He hadn’t blacked out since the early days of Sherlock’s death. 

It does not matter how often or how persistently he tells himself that the drinking will not solve anything. He feels too much and it is mostly pain. 

He isn’t sure who he is. The world has been turned upside down and inside out one too many times. His own hands don’t particularly feel real or attached to him. 

__________

 

Sherlock has tried to call him incessantly for the past three days. John won’t pick up. John is so afraid to hear his voice. It will sound achingly beautiful and achingly sad and John won’t know what to say. John would tell Sherlock to leave him alone if he thought he could muster it or be even a bit convincing. 

When Sherlock finally gives up on respectability he comes to John’s house. John’s very empty house that is full of only John. Sherlock knocks. John opens the door only because he knows that Sherlock will break in if he doesn’t and lets Sherlock past him. 

He’s already drunk, has been for roughly an hour. He holds a glass of scotch in his hand. It’s three in the afternoon. 

“What do you want?” John asks, his voice rough from not being used.  
“I want you to stop whatever it is you’re doing here and come back to Baker Street. Please,” Sherlock replies, his eyes begging.  
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”  
“And why not?” Sherlock demands, his eyes going wide. 

John can think of many reasons.  
_I’m not in a good way. I don’t want you to see me like this. I’m a complete mess that you should not have to clean up. I don’t know if you’re real anymore. I don’t know what I’m doing with myself. I’m so in love with you it hurts, and you don’t love me back._  
“I need things to be stable before I do anything. Everyone at work thinks my wife is dead. She didn’t exist in the first place. I don’t know what’s real anymore. I can’t tell.”  
John takes another sip of scotch, unable to look Sherlock in the eye.  
“I’m real,” Sherlock responds. His mouth hangs open a bit, and he’s very close. They’re on the sofa, and Sherlock’s coat is draped around him. John realizes that it will be Sherlock’s birthday tomorrow.  
“You say that, but it is hard to tell with you sometimes.”  
“What do you mean?” Sherlock asks.  
“I know so much of you, and yet sometimes I can’t tell what you’re like. I know that you’re harsh, and quick, and fantastic. I know you’re very kind when you want to be. I know you can be sometimes incredibly cruel. I also know that you feel everything very much.”  
John knows that he’s rambling. He’s drunk.  
“I’m never going to lie to you ever again, do you understand that?” Sherlock asks.  
He’s so close, and John would love to lean in and kiss him. He’s a mess however, and Sherlock deserves better than that.  
“I know you aren’t lying, but I can’t believe you,” John replies. 

He wishes very much that he could be better. 

 

__________

 

_The flowers bloomed pink and purple in the spring time. The bath tub overflows over and over. John sits on his sofa, looking out the window. It suddenly goes black and his vision is fuzzy. His entire body vibrates, it feels as though he may explode.  
When it calms, Ellis’ hands come into view. They pull him up, help him to stand._

Perhaps he dreams of Ellis because he wishes for a simpler time. Maybe it is because Ellis was always so completely open with him. Perhaps it is because Ellis always wanted him to be better than he was, wanted to open John up, crack open his entire being and enter, and was never allowed to do so.  
John thinks he could probably do that for Sherlock. It might even feel freeing. It might even feel good.

 

__________

 

John finds himself in a small hole in the wall pub. He has three pints and one shot. He finds himself texting Sherlock, unable to stop himself. 

_I never said happy birthday. I’m sorry._

_Yes well, you’ve been a bit preoccupied. How drunk are you? –SH_  
Of course he knows. He always knows. 

_A little._

_Do you need assistance?—SH_

The idea of Sherlock having to come get him because he’s gotten too drunk is embarrassing. John orders another pint and doesn’t reply.

_I’m going to come get you if you don’t respond.—SH_

 

By the time Sherlock finds him, John is more than a little drunk. He leans his forearms against the bar, trying to get his bearings.  
Sherlock slides into the seat next to him.  
“You know this isn’t good, right? You tell me that all the time,” Sherlock says.  
“Yeah, well. You had at least three cigarettes on the way here,” John replies.  
“I guess we’re both addicts then,” Sherlock retorts.  
John shakes his head, laughs a little into his beer.  
“You should go home,” Sherlock says. “You should go home and go to bed.”  
“I will when I’m good and ready.”  
Sherlock sighs.  
“I’m not leaving until you do, I hope you know that.”

 

__________

 

John counts his losses on his fingers as if his hurt could possibly be measured.  
Then he remembers Sherlock should have been gone and away from him three different times and each time he came back. That has to mean something. 

John throws up into the toilet for the third time in one night. 

 

__________

 

In the month before John got married, Sherlock taught him how to dance. Sherlock had had his hand in John’s, the other on his shoulder. He’d been in his pajamas and he’d been wildly telling John the steps. John hadn’t gotten the hang of it very well.  
Sherlock had been patient though.

At the wedding, John had made a joke of it.  
John takes a drink for every time he had hidden his love away. He takes one last long drag on the bottle before he can’t remember anything else, one last drag for what he’s doing currently. 

__________

 

If Mary hadn’t happened, John wonders if he would have kept feeling sorry for himself. He wonders what would have happened if Sherlock had come back and Sherlock had found him as pathetic as he was when he had first left him. 

 

__________

 

He isn’t sure how it has happened this time. He comes to with Sherlock’s face very close to his.  
Sherlock looks worried, brows furrowed together.  
“Can you hear me?” Sherlock asks.  
“Yes. How did you get into the house?”  
“You let me in,” Sherlock replies, his voice hitching just a little, a giveaway to his slowly growing panic.  
“Why are you here?”  
“You called me. I don’t know if you meant to call me but you did. You didn’t sound okay. I got…worried.”

John wonders where his gun is. He realizes quickly that he must have alcohol poisoning. His shirt is covered in vomit, and he’s sweating. He feels cold.  
“You’re shaking,” Sherlock says. He takes the wool blanket off the back of the lounging chair, the one that Mary had picked out, and throws it over John.  
John falls asleep again, or not again, he’s not sure, against Sherlock’s side. It is warm and steady unlike everything else. 

 

__________

 

He is sure he loved Mary, whoever she was. He is sure that although none of anything she ever said to him was real, he loved the lie with such an intensity. He wishes it weren’t true, but it is. 

 

__________

 

“Please, come home,” Sherlock says with a clenched jaw. It’s very late at night, of that John is aware. “Please stop. You’re killing yourself.”  
John laughs, leaning against the sofa. He doesn’t know how much he’s had to drink. He won’t remember this conversation.  
“You think this is bad? You should have seen what I was like when I thought you were dead.”  
Sherlock watches him, his mouth opens and closes. Then it turns into something incredibly sad and ancient.  
“I miss you John. I want you to come home. Why won’t you let me help you?”  
“Because I’m afraid.”  
“Do you miss her?” Sherlock asks suddenly, his eyes very bright.  
“I’m not sure anymore. I miss…the idea of her. How could I miss her though?”  
“Did you miss me?” Sherlock asks. He’s so quiet. John feels as if his skin is vibrating. This doesn’t seem like it could be truly happening, his vision is too blurred.  
“God, yes. I missed you so much. I still miss you now sometimes.”

 

__________

 

John isn’t sure how, but he’s stepping on broken glass with bare feet.  
“That’s it! I don’t care what you tell me! You’re coming home with me. I’m calling a cab,” Sherlock shouts. John has never seen Sherlock be so angry with him. He supposes it’s more frustration than anything else.  
“You can’t make me do anything,” John says.  
“Yes I can and I fucking will. Sit down.”  
John sits. Sherlock inspects the bottom of his feet and his ankles. They hurt but John’s eyes are closed.  
“Fuck,” Sherlock mutters under his breath. 

John’s feet get bandaged. The glass gets swept up. Water is forced down his throat.  
Sherlock pushes him into a cab and gets in after him.  
“I’ll have Mycroft get your things.”  
Sherlock won’t look at him. 

 

They arrive at Baker Street and Sherlock puts John to bed. He falls asleep quickly.  
“Thank you,” John says to Sherlock as he moves to leave.  
“It’s nothing, John,” Sherlock replies, and turns the light off.


	18. Chapter 18

John wakes early in the morning. His head hurts and he’s shaking.   
He looks around, a bit confused as to his surroundings, only to realize he’s in his old bedroom at Baker Street.   
There are painkillers and a glass of water on the table.   
He doesn’t even question it, just takes it hungrily. 

John tries to remember the night before, how he got back, but it only comes back in bits and pieces.   
He remembers his feet hurting, and pulls the covers up.   
Sure enough, there are bandages on his feet.   
He is certain he didn’t do it himself. 

He pulls the covers around him tightly. He knows he’s going through withdrawal. 

John hears a knock on his door.   
“Come in,” he manages to sputter out.   
Sherlock comes through the door. He looks tired. John guesses he hasn’t slept.   
“Are you hungry?” Sherlock asks. He stays near the door, as if afraid to move freely in his own flat.   
“Not right now, no.”  
Sherlock walks out then back in, carrying a blanket. He wraps it around John’s shoulders.   
“Do you need anything right now?”  
“Another Paracetamol if you’ve got it,” John replies. He feels weak. “And juice if it hasn’t already been contaminated by body parts.” Sherlock cracks a smile.   
“Of course.”

Sherlock leaves, then comes back again, hands John the pills, the juice, hands steady.   
“How long do you think it will last?” Sherlock asks.   
“With as much as I’ve been drinking? A couple of days. So, what did I do that landed me here?”  
John would be upset, maybe even should be, but he also knows that he would have ended up back here at some point, and he also knows he needed to be pulled away from himself.   
“You got angry with me. You broke a bottle. Your feet are torn to shreds.”  
“Why was I angry?” John asks, though he isn’t sure he wants to know the answer.  
“Why wouldn’t you be?” Sherlock responds. His face is difficult to read. John sighs.  
“What did I say?”   
This conversation feels dangerous, but important nonetheless. And in all honestly, John is sick of taking the easy routes.   
“It doesn’t matter. I know you didn’t mean it.”  
John’s stomach flutters. His heart rate picks up. He squeezes his eyes shut, then opens them, determined.   
“What. Did. I. Say?”  
“You said you wished I had stayed dead.”

John has to laugh. He puts his head in his hands for a small moment, then looks up at Sherlock again, who is avoiding his gaze. 

“Sherlock, that is in fact the most untrue thing I’ve ever said. I have never wished that, no matter how angry I’ve been with you. But there’s no excuse for that. I’m sorry.”  
“It’s fine. I know you didn’t mean it.”  
“It’s not fine. It’s not fine at all.”  
Sherlock meets John’s gaze.   
“I meant, I forgive you.”

 

__________

 

On the second day, Sherlock makes John eat. He has toast and then later biscuits. He forces it down with tea. The shaking is better. Sherlock changes the bandages on his feet. He sleeps, mostly. Sherlock is in and out of the bedroom, and so is John. He dreams of train rides where a woman keeps falling over and over. 

__________

 

John checks his phone, and it is a Thursday.   
He gets up, he stretches. His bones creak.   
He walks lightly on his feet and makes his way into the bathroom. 

He showers for a long time. When he gets out he bandages his own feet. He brushes his teeth three times. He dries his hair with a towel. He realizes he needs to get it cut. 

His things are already back in the room, placed there while he slept.   
He takes out his most comfortable sweater, jeans. He looks decent. 

He goes downstairs, and into the kitchen.   
Sherlock is standing at the counter, tea into a teacup. Breakfast has already been laid out for him. He knows Sherlock cooked it himself because although he feigns helplessness he can make a fine omelette. 

“You need to eat everything on your plate. No exceptions. You haven’t eaten much in the last three days,” Sherlock says, setting the tea down. He looks tired but beautiful, his curls spanning out and falling into his eyes. Sherlock needs a haircut too.   
“Okay, doctor,” John replies, and they smile at each other for what must be the first time in ages.   
John sips his tea, and looks around him.   
“And for the record. It’s all gone. Including the thirty year old scotch I stole from Mycroft. He’ll be happy to know it all went down the drain. Neither of us will be drinking anymore. I probably shouldn’t have been in the first place you know, addict and all,” Sherlock says as he takes his seat across from John. John nods.   
The flat is very clean. There is no clutter, all of Sherlock’s papers stacked and placed in a proper order. It’s almost unrecognizable with how utterly polished it looks. John suspects there are no body parts in the fridge.   
“I’m staying, you know,” John says. “If you’ll have me.”  
Sherlock presses his lips together and nods.   
“You don’t need to ask. This is your home. It always has been.”  
John pushes the lump in his throat down. This man, the sociopath.   
“Sherlock, one more thing.” John waits until Sherlock meets his gaze.   
“Yes?”  
“Thank you,” John says. “For…for everything. I didn’t say it before. And it needs to be said.”  
“It was nothing,” Sherlock replies. John won’t argue with him on this. There would be no point. 

 

__________

 

They take to sitting in front of the fireplace, drinking tea until they are too tired. They just talk about nothing. 

Being home is good.

 

__________

 

Sherlock had asked if John was interested in taking a case.   
John had said yes. 

This is how John finds himself laying down in an alley, scratched by a knife-wielding drug dealer.   
It had been just a scratch. It looks much worse than it is. He’s on the ground more so because of his fall. He’d been tripped. 

But this is how John finds himself watching Sherlock beat the ever loving fuck out of a man. John is worried Sherlock is going to kill him.   
“SHERLOCK, STOP!” John yells from the ground. Sherlock turns to face him, eyes wild. Sherlock is breathing heavily. He falls to the ground where John is laying.   
“John, John, John,” Sherlock repeats, voice barely a whisper, nearly unheard over the sounds of traffic coming from the road.   
Sherlock presses his hand to John’s side to try to stop the bleeding.   
“You aren’t allowed to die, I just got you back, please, please,” Sherlock begs. His hands are pressed so deeply against John that it very nearly hurts. 

It’s frightening how he says _I just got you back_ as if Sherlock hasn’t been back for well over a year. 

“Sherlock, I’m fine,” John says. He makes sure his voice is steady and firm. “It looks worse than it is.   
John gently pushes Sherlock’s hands away and lifts up his shirt.   
“See, look, I’m fine,” John says.   
Sherlock’s lips are trembling, and he’s rubbing his bloodied hands together, like he always does when he’s nervous.   
“Oh,” Sherlock whispers. His eyes are wide and shining. They remind John of the moon.   
“It’s okay,” John says. 

John calls an ambulance for the drug dealer. 

 

__________

 

They fall into place, closer and closer every day it seems. After a month, Sherlock is sitting next to John at the kitchen table and not across. Sometimes their knees brush and neither of them says anything. 

Sometimes, John will brush the back of Sherlock’s neck and his fingers will touch his hair when he hands Sherlock his coffee in the morning. 

John can’t be certain but he’s fairly sure that Sherlock has pushed their chairs closer together over time, like they were on John’s stag night. 

When they eat at Angelo’s, John never denies the candle that is placed in the middle of the table. 

John wonders if he could care for this man more than he already does. 

 

__________

It’s a Tuesday when Sherlock comes out of the bathroom, freshly showered and wearing a purple shirt, the buttons not done all the way up yet.   
John can feel the look on his face. He can feel the way his mouth softens and the way he blinks too rapidly but he does nothing to stop it.   
“What?” Sherlock asks, doing up the rest of the buttons.   
“Nothing,” John replies too quickly.   
John catches the smirk that crosses Sherlock’s face as he walks away. He feels himself blush. He feels like he’s sixteen and he can’t even be upset about it. Instead he revels in it. He wonders how obvious he is. He wonders if he cares at all. 

John often fantasizes about telling Sherlock. Telling him everything. He wants to bear his soul. He wants to tell Sherlock he’s in love with him. He wants to tell Sherlock he is the love of his life. He wants to tell Sherlock he was in love with James Sholto once, but nothing ever happened and he wants to tell Sherlock that the first time he fell in love with a man he was too much of a coward and so he ran away but at least he’d had the decency to kiss Ellis like he meant it. He wants to tell Sherlock that even Mary knew that John had been in love with him and he wants to tell Sherlock that he has been in love with him since the earliest months they knew each other and he loved him when he was dead and he loved him on his wedding day and he loves and he loves and he loves. 

__________

 

It’s late on a Saturday night. There are cups of tea and leftover Chinese food between them. They are watching Bond movies, and have been for hours. Their knees are brushing again, and this night feels precious, as if it is precariously balanced in the universe. It probably is.   
John has been licking his lips so much that they’re chapped and hurt but it doesn’t matter. He feels brave tonight.   
“You know, when I was a kid, I had a crush on Bond,” John says, glancing at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. John smiles at the admission. Besides Harry, and besides the lie that is Mary Morstan, no one else has ever known that he likes men as well as women. Even this small thing seems so large.   
Sherlock turns to him, cracking a smile.   
“You had a crush on James Bond?”  
“Yeah, yeah I did,” John replies. He’s laughing now, and he’s afraid, but that’s okay.   
Sherlock nods then laughs with him. It’s a deep laugh.   
“Didn’t you have any crushes on celebrities when you were a kid?” John asks, feeling that if he can make the confession then perhaps Sherlock will reveal a bit of himself as well.   
“Yes, I did,” Sherlock says. He looks sleepy and content and wonderful.   
“Well then, who was it?” John asks.   
“Nikola Tesla,” Sherlock says, and immediately starts to giggle.   
John follows suit. He starts to laugh a full laugh, and they push each other farther into the laughter. It reminds John of the time at the palace, when Sherlock had showed up in a sheet.   
“Nikola Tesla. My God, of course you did,” John wheezes out. Sherlock looks at him with a radiant smile and then looks away, almost shy.   
They look at each other seriously after they have composed themselves, realizing what they have revealed.   
“I didn’t know that you were interested in men,” Sherlock says, looking at John and the television at the same time. His hands are pressed together; a dead giveaway.   
“Yeah, well, you too,” John replies.   
“I thought I was fairly obvious,” Sherlock says.   
“Definitely not,” John says, biting his tongue down on the question of Irene, Janine, the _married to my work_.   
Sherlock shrugs.   
“I told you the first day we met though.”  
“What do you mean?” John asks.  
“I told you, girlfriends aren’t really my area.”  
“That could have meant a lot of things,” John says. “I didn’t want to assume.”  
“What else on Earth could that possibly mean?” Sherlock asks.   
“It could have meant you weren’t interested in anyone. You did say you were married to your work that night too.”  
“Yes, I suppose I did,” Sherlock says, staring at the screen. 

They don’t say anything else, they fall asleep on the couch, letting the tea get cold.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “If you are staying,” she says, “we are going to need more…”  
> She is looking at Carvaggio, knowing his skills from the past, not quite saying it.  
> “I lost my nerve,” he says.  
> “I’ll come with you, then,” Hana offers. “We’ll do it together. You can teach me to steal, show me what to do.”  
> “You don’t understand. I lost my nerve.”  
> “Why?”  
> “I was caught. They nearly chopped off my fucking hands.”
> 
> -Michael Ondaatje, The English Patient

He can sit in his chair for as long as he wants. The weather will still change, the sky will change hue, the chlorophyll in the tree leaves will change until the color looks like smoke, and Sherlock will still come home looking as heartbreakingly perfect as always. It’s getting warm, so Sherlock will open one of the windows. He may sneak a cigarette in when he thinks John has gone to bed and he will look disgustingly gorgeous doing so, something like a slaughtered lamb, strung upside down for a reason. 

John’s head leans against the back of the chair. He stares at the ceiling, like he has stared at so many other blank walls for a completely different reason. 

He does feel like he’s dying, but not like the last time.  
This time dying hurts but it feels good.  
It feels like hot coals burning inside his stomach, it feels like bile rising in his throat, it feels like thousands of hands pounding on the inside of his ribcage. 

It is a fear that feels raw and outrageous and above all wholly true. 

“I love him,” John whispers out loud to an empty flat. 

He breathes in. He breathes out. He thinks about screaming into a pillow.

“I love him,” he repeats to the walls, the sofa, the silent telly, the cold tea at his elbow. “I’m in love with him.”

John tries to imagine Sherlock’s rage, Sherlock’s discomfort, Sherlock’s rejection, by far the worst: Sherlock’s pity. 

Sherlock has rejected him before. It is a lifetime ago, but he has. This is so much more than thinking him handsome. This is Earth shattering. 

Sherlock will be home later and he will unbutton his blazer and hang it up and sit down across from John and every moment he isn’t kissing him will feel like a lie. 

“I can’t live like this anymore,” John says out loud to the dripping sink, the beige slippers, the dust on the mantel. 

 

__________

 

Later, Sherlock does come home and does look disgustingly gorgeous.  
John tries to go to bed early and can’t. Around midnight he can faintly smell cigarette smoke.  
John pulls on his robe and puts on his slippers and makes his way very quietly down the stairs.  
Sherlock sits at the window sill, one foot placed on the ledge, his right elbow thrown over his knee. He is looking out at nighttime London. John knows he loves it very much.  
John waits until he is standing three feet away from Sherlock’s turned back to speak.  
“Is something wrong?” John asks.  
Sherlock turns quickly, whipping his head around, making to throw the cigarette out the window.  
“Leave it, I’m not going to lecture you, not tonight,” John says.  
“To answer your question, nothing is wrong. Old habits are just dying hard…again.”  
“You picked up smoking again when I didn’t live here,” John says as he joins Sherlock on the ledge. The breeze is cool and feels good against his eyelids.  
“I smoked constantly. After you moved in I tried to stop but, I know you aren’t an idiot.”  
“You’ve been doing very well then. I’ve only noticed a handful of times.”

Sherlock smiles, then puts the cigarette to his lips. The smoke joins the night air and is gone soon enough. John doesn’t want to admit it, but Sherlock makes smoking look gorgeous. Then again, he makes most things look gorgeous. 

“Hand that over,” John says, gesturing to the cigarette.  
“I thought you weren’t going to lecture me tonight,” Sherlock replies.  
“I’m not,” John says matter-of-factly.  
Sherlock hands over the cigarette, placing it slowly into John’s fingers.  
“If you’re going to slowly kill yourself then so am I,” John says.  
He puts the cigarette to his mouth, takes a long drag, then blows the smoke out through his nose. Sherlock has not stopped watching him for a second. His mouth is agape just slightly, and John smirks to himself.  
“The last time I had one of these I was with my sister,” John says. 

_The last time I had one of these, I told my sister I was in love with you. And if we’re following patterns here…_

“Was that recently?” Sherlock asks. John knows what he’s really asking is if he’s had a drink.  
“No, relatively speaking. Much more recent than the first and only other time I had a cigarette.”  
“Good, this shit will kill you,” Sherlock says, taking the cigarette back from John.  
They both laugh.  
John wants to kiss him so badly he feels weightless. The nicotine has gone to his head.  
“Goodnight, Sherlock,” John says.  
He doesn’t trust himself to say or do anything else. 

He cries a bit, but only a bit when he is back upstairs. He falls asleep eventually, but not before he hears Sherlock’s own bedroom door close. 

 

__________

 

John wakes up the next morning and it’s nearly noon.  
Some part of him wants to roll over and go back to sleep, but he’s done with that. There will be no more rolling over and pretending he isn’t in love and that everything is fine. He has hope after all because sometimes Sherlock looks at him and it’s all there, not hidden anymore. 

John rises from the bed. He’s going to do this right.  
He’s going to do what he should have done about a thousand different times.  
He’s going to do what he should have done the night after the pool.  
He is going to do what he should have done every night after the pool.  
He is going to do what he should have done when Sherlock came back from the dead, on his stag night, when Sherlock was shot by John’s wife, when Sherlock almost flew away from him forever, what he should have done last night. 

John showers, and he picks the outfit he wore the night of the pool, when they agreed to die together. The color is bright and warm. He looks in the mirror and realizes he looks good. 

He goes downstairs and looks at Sherlock, tries to memorize everything about him. This will be the last time Sherlock Doesn’t Know.

John’s heart is beating so quickly it hurts. It’s beating faster than when he’s entered a war zone, bullets whizzing past. It’s beating faster than the night at the pool; this is much more important than death. He feels nauseous, but he pushes past it, breathes deeply. 

Sherlock is sitting in his chair, plucking at his violin. John can tell that he’s bored, which is ridiculous because how can Sherlock be bored when John is on the verge of collapsing in front of him?

“Sherlock,” John says. He’s about four feet away, standing. He places his feet six inches apart and becomes steady. The Earth could implode and John Watson would not move from this spot. His hands are balled up into fists, steady.  
“What is it?” Sherlock asks, not looking up.  
“Put your violin down, please,” John says.  
“Why?” Sherlock asks, still not looking at him.  
“Because I’m going to tell you something.”  
“Well you can tell me all you want I’m not deaf,” Sherlock says, rolling his eyes.  
“Sherlock,” John says loudly, firmly.  
“What?!” Sherlock asks, then turns, finally to look at him. It must register, the seriousness, because he puts the violin down. “Has someone died?” Sherlock asks.  
John smiles just a little then shakes his head.  
“Damn, I was hoping it was my brother,” Sherlock says.  
“No,” John replies. “No one has died.” _Just me._

“Well then, what is it?”  
John has Sherlock’s full attention now, which makes it all the more real and all the more terrifying.  
“What I’m going to tell you is very important. But I want you to know that I expect nothing of you. I just want you to know, because you deserve to know,” John says carefully. He closes his eyes just the once, then opens them, takes a deep breath.  
“For God’s sake, what is it?” Sherlock demands. Ever impatient. John smiles fondly. It may be the last time he gets to.  
John tilts his head up a bit, keeps his mouth firm, eyes locked on Sherlock. 

_God, just do it. Please, just do it. If you really love him, prove it._

“I love you,” John says. He is surprised by how calm and smooth his voice is. “Of course, I’m in love with you. I always have been.”

There are a few seconds of silence.  
Then Sherlock lets out a small laugh with no humor.

“Always?” Sherlock repeats, then shakes his head and looks away.  
“Yes. I’m not sure when exactly it happened but I can’t remember a time when I didn’t love you, so. There.”

Sherlock continues not to look at him. Sherlock’s hand has gone to his mouth, his fingers touching his bottom lip. He continues not to say anything.  
“Sherlock please, say something,” John begs. It’d be much better to be told ‘no’ than to listen to the nothingness. It’s eerily quiet in the flat, and John can only hear the sound of his own breathing.  
“John, I know how obvious I’ve been. And I know…I know you’ve been through so much. But that does not mean that I need your…your pity, or--”  
John cuts him off.  
“Pity? Is that what you think this is? Are you not listening to a God damn word that I’ve said? I’m in love with you, you bastard. I love you more than I have loved anything else in my entire life.”  
He can hear his voice breaking now. It has hurt to carry this much. To unload it is too much of a relief, but he can’t have the relief if he isn’t believed. 

Sherlock’s lips are pressed into a thin line, and his palms are pressing into his chair so roughly it may leave a burn mark.  
“That isn’t possible,” Sherlock whispers.  
“Why not?” John demands. He is blinking back tears—he refuses to cry. Absolutely refuses.  
“Because…I’m me,” Sherlock says heartbreakingly slowly. “No one has ever loved me, and no one should. You were right, you know. I should have stayed dead.”  
“Shut up,” John says, and closes his eyes.  
This is the last thing he expected.  
“You just shut up because you are not pushing me away. Remember what happened the last time you did that? Hmm? The last time you did that, you died. And I died with you.”  
Sherlock stands, comes towards John until they are inches apart. Sherlock looks down at John, and his face is pure panic. John continues to be an immovable ancient pyramid.  
“You’re in love with me?” Sherlock demands.  
“Yes.”  
“Since when?”  
“Since I told you to run.” 

Sherlock’s face collapses, and his eyes catch fire. He knows exactly what John means. 

Sherlock doesn’t say anything, but his breathing is heavy, and his eyes are shining brightly. He’s not looking away now. 

“I told you always. And if we’re being so exact, I thought you were beautiful from the moment I saw you so. There.”  
“John,” Sherlock whispers, and it sounds so terrified. Sherlock should never sound like that.  
“I told you I don’t expect anything. I just wanted you to know.”

Sherlock is kissing him, and it has happened so quickly that John doesn’t even get a chance to react before Sherlock pulls away, looking frightened.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock says, eyes wide. He turns away.  
“No, no, absolutely not,” John says in a rush, and takes Sherlock’s wrist in his hand. 

“Do you want to kiss me?” John asks, voice quiet. Sherlock turns back.  
“Yes.”  
“Okay.”

John puts both hands on either side of Sherlock’s face, and then lets his mouth slide into Sherlock’s. He breathes deeply and God, he’s trying so hard to keep himself composed. 

Sherlock’s hands are in John’s hair, on his face, Sherlock’s thumb rubbing gentle circles against his cheek. It breaks him. They could have been kissing for hours, John isn’t sure. 

He pulls away, only slightly.  
“Oh my God,” John breathes. He looks up at Sherlock, who looks completely undone.  
“Please, please kiss me again,” Sherlock says.  
So John does. He kisses Sherlock’s mouth, his jawline, his neck.  
“Tell me…tell me you loved me…” Sherlock begins, stumbling a bit, placing his hands on John’s shoulders for support. “Tell me you loved me on your wedding day.”  
John pauses from his kissing, and looks at Sherlock.  
“I loved you on my wedding day.”  
John kisses the side of Sherlock’s mouth.  
“I loved you on my wedding day. And I loved you every day before, and every day after.”

Sherlock whines in the back of his throat and it is a desperate yet beautiful noise.  
“John, I love you,” Sherlock says, his hands making their way up to the back of John’s neck, into his hair.  
“Yeah? Since when?” John asks. It’s meant to be a joke.  
“Since you killed a man for me.”

It was meant to be a joke.  
_The cabbie._  
“You’re joking aren’t you?” John asks, and now he knows his voice is gone, it’s coming out all wrong, and he can’t really sound that pathetic, can he?  
“No, absolutely not. There is nothing in this world I would not do for you,” Sherlock says.  
“I know,” John replies. “I know.”

__________

 

John is positively exhausted after he knows. They’ve been standing in the same spot, staring at each other in disbelief, kissing in between breathes. The afternoon is glowing, and John isn’t sure what he looks like anymore, all he knows is that his entire body is tingling, and he just keeps smiling, staring up at the love of his life.  
John also feels as if his legs are going to give in.  
“We should sit down,” he tells Sherlock. Sherlock nods. 

They make it to the sofa, and it’s a miracle they’ve moved at all.  
They kiss and they kiss and they kiss. 

Eventually, 221B becomes completely dark. The only noise comes from the street. They breathe into each other’s necks. John runs his hands through Sherlock’s hair a hundred times.  
“We should go to bed,” John whispers. Sherlock kisses him in response. 

They change into pajamas in the dark.  
The last time John laid in Sherlock’s bed, he had thought he’d destroyed it by sleeping in it, hating himself afterwards.  
Now, they crawl into the sheets together. 

“I love you,” Sherlock says before drifting into unconsciousness.  
“I love you too.”

A hand finds the small of John’s back.  
Sherlock pushes his face into John’s chest and holds him around his waist. John presses his lips to Sherlock’s forehead. 

They fall asleep, quickly and easily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my hand slipped and i'm burning and on fire and someone please flush me down the gay toilet.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok here comes the actual M for mature ya'll. p. mild but aye.

John wakes in the earliest hours of the morning, the bedroom still mostly dark. 

He turns, looks around. He is in Sherlock’s bedroom, the expensive, fluffy pillows and sheets all huddled together around him.   
He feels the weight and warmth of another body.   
Sherlock is next to him, fast asleep, mouth hanging open a little. There is sweat on his forehead from sleep, and his curls are sticking to his forehead because of it.   
Sherlock also has a hand thrown around John’s hip. 

He hadn’t already forgotten, not in the least. It had all just felt like a dream.   
He’s overwhelmed now.   
The fact that Sherlock is lying next to him, fast asleep, breathing softly, touching him unconsciously. 

He loves me, how is that possible? 

John runs a hand through Sherlock’s hair. 

“How were we both so stupid?” John whispers to the sleeping figure next to him. 

He can’t believe himself but he is wiping at his eyes.

He goes to the bathroom, and as he is coming back he hears his name called. 

“John?” It’s a timid sound.   
Sherlock is standing in the hallway, a hand in his hair.   
“What is it?” John asks.   
“Nothing, I just…didn’t know where you were.”

John smiles at him, and Sherlock looks soft, the way his shirt is crumpled from sleep, the just-awoken look in his eye.   
“Come on, let’s go back to bed.”

 

__________

 

It is the dead of night. Around the time of night when John used to wake up screaming and then hear soft violin coming from the floor below. 

They can't sleep. The night before, sleep had come easily and was welcome. They had been exhausted after all. They had both gone into the most terrifying war zone, and had lived somehow. Rest had been necessary. 

Their day had been filled with tea, lunch eaten with all the windows open. A thousand tiny kisses, noses rubbing together awkwardly yet wonderfully. That had been during the waking hours. 

Now there is nothing but anticipation. Now they know each other's truths and want nothing but to know it _all._   
There are questions burning in John's mouth.

_What about Irene Adler? I left you alone with her, I thought you wanted her, you solved a case in under a minute just to impress her. Did you love her? Did she have you once? I know she wanted you. What about Janine? Even if it was for a case, you must have been convincing. Did you really love me for so long and so quickly? Surely there were others before me._

But he wants to be gentle, and he doesn't want to make Sherlock answer it all at once. Not if he doesn't want to. 

"You have questions," Sherlock says, throwing his left ankle over John's. Sherlock pushes his head down further into his pillow. Of course.   
"Yeah, I do. About a million. I want to know everything I don't already know about you."  
"Good because I have questions too. Ask away," Sherlock says, matter-of-fact. Sherlock has never been shy, why should this be any different?   
"Okay...Irene Adler," John says.   
"What about her?"  
"Did you love her?" 

Sherlock laughs a little, then a lot.   
"She isn't dead you know," Sherlock says. "I got her out of a tight spot. I believe she's in China now. Last she texted anyway."  
"I never told you she was dead," John replies.   
"I know. But I know my brother told you she's dead. And you told me she was in a witness protection program because you thought I was in love with her."  
"Good at avoiding the question, you," John says, a smirk crossing his face.   
"I haven't avoided the question at all," Sherlock replies.   
It takes John a minute, but he does get there.   
"Oh...you would be with her...if you loved her."  
"Yes. And to answer the other question you want to ask but don't want to invade my privacy--the answer is no. We did not have sex. She was willing, and I was indifferent. Next question."

John huffs out a laugh.   
"Alright. What about Janine? I mean, you must have cared about her at least a little, you had to have been convincing."  
"Janine is a fascinating person. But there wasn't actually much convincing between her and I. She knew exactly what I was doing the entire time, and I helped her get publicity. And what you read in the papers, is all fake, obviously. We never had sex."  
"But she came out of your bedroom..." John says. "And in the bathroom?"  
Sherlock just stares at him blankly, blinking a few times.   
"What am I not getting here?" John asks.   
"Do I really need to spell it out for you? As you can see, I'm laying in bed with you, I've kissed you approximately four hundred and fifty six times today, and you're asking me _why_ Janine would be pretending that she had had sex with me the night before?

John opens his mouth then closes it.   
"You're telling me she knew you love me?"  
"Yes! For God's sake. She was trying to make you jealous. I was pleased to see that it worked. 

"It really really did," John replies. "Especially when I thought you wanted to marry her."  
"As I had said, I'd never actually go through with all that," Sherlock says, voice dry. John knows what he's getting at. He knows he'll answer all those questions soon enough.   
"Yeah, I know." John leans over and kisses Sherlock's forehead. "I'm sorry."  
"It doesn't matter now. Ask the next question."  
"Well surely you loved someone before me. And I find it very hard to believe no one has loved you, wanted you..." John trails off.   
"Wanting and loving are two very different things, John. Plenty of people have wanted me but none of them have loved me. I know because whenever I told them 'No' they left. And I maybe loved a few, I'm not sure. I had a friend in Uni. His name was Victor and he was very thin with very dark eyes and his family was living in India and always wanted him to come home. He was very kind to me when no one else was. He introduced me to his girlfriend and I couldn't even hate her, she was so nice. They all had girlfriends."   
"Sherlock, I'm sorry."

Sherlock shrugs. 

"I was always different, might as well have tacked on my preference for men to cast me further out of normalcy."

John thinks back to the many times he hid himself away. He kisses Sherlock like it's penance.   
"What else do you want to know?" Sherlock asks quietly when John pulls away.  
"Did you tell everybody 'No'?"   
"At the risk of you becoming very worried...the answer is yes. I told everybody 'No'."

Sherlock moves away a bit, looking away. He pulls the blankets up over his chest. 

John will have none of this. 

"Come here. Why do you look so worried?"  
"I've always understood it to be that sex is a normal part of most relationships and I _know_ that you--" Sherlock says into John's chest.   
"Sherlock, we don't have to do anything ever, not if you don't want to."  
Sherlock pulls himself up to look at John. He closes his eyes.  
"But I do want to, I do," Sherlock says earnestly. John has never seen him look this way. "I have thought about it so many times."   
"Well, we can. When you want to. When we're ready."

John strokes Sherlock's hair, kisses his forehead again. 

"This is highly embarrassing, ask the next question," Sherlock demands.   
"You have nothing to be embarrassed about. But okay. I have to ask. Have you really loved me for so long?"  
"Yes, of course I have how could I not? You are both beautiful and fascinating. You're the least boring person I've ever met. You don't make any sense."

John smiles. 

"I don't know about all that. Why didn't you ever say anything? We both know I was clearly hitting on you the first night at Angelo's."  
"I had just met you. You seemed all right and you were very handsome but I needed more data. And then...you kept re-enforcing how 'not gay' you are. I thought I had miscalculated. Besides, no one has ever loved me before. I'm still trying to decide if this is real and you aren't going to end up leaving shortly."

John hates himself entirely for a few moments.   
"Sherlock, I'm never leaving you. I've been without you far too many times. So long as you want me I'm not leaving."  
"I won't let you. I'd lock you in this room forever," Sherlock says. John laughs a little.  
"A bit not good, Sherlock."  
"Sorry. Ask the next question."  
"Were you ever in London, when you were away?"  
"Once, for about twelve hours."  
"Did you see me?" John asks. He can hardly remember those days. All he can remember is pain.   
"Yes. I immediately regretted it," Sherlock says.  
"Why?"   
"Because it made me want to die that I couldn't go to you."  
"When did you see me?"   
"It was...maybe four months after I had left. You were getting on the train."  
"And what did you see, when you looked at me?" John doesn't know why he's asking such morbid questions. He just needs to know.  
"You looked...more like you did when I first met you. Less like You. You looked...forced..." Sherlock whispers. "I wanted to fix it."

Sherlock puts a hand against John's face and kisses him.   
"I honestly thought...you would be fine without me," Sherlock says. 

John laughs bitterly.  
"That's because you're an idiot." 

Sherlock pushes his nose into John's cheek.

"I am. Can I ask you a question now?"  
"Of course. You can ask me anything."  
"Were you in love with James Sholto?"

The question is wholly unexpected. John hasn't thought about it in so long.  
"I think I did love him, yes. But nothing happened, ever. How could it? He was my Commanding Officer."  
"Does that mean I'm the only man you've...had this with?" Sherlock asks. 

John thinks back to the tiny diner and to falling asleep on library desks and having to sneak out of a dorm room that wasn't his early nearly every morning, to make sure no one would know.

"No. You aren't the first," John says. He knows this probably disappoints Sherlock in a way, who is already terrified.   
"Was he good to you?" Sherlock asks.   
"He was very good to me. Much better than I deserved."  
"What was he like?"

John lets himself wander off, thinking of Ellis.   
"He was really, very gorgeous. He looked a bit like you. He had terrible eyesight and was a little clumsy but he was very smart and I don't think I ever met anyone who didn't like him. He forced me to enjoy life because I didn't know how to do it myself. He very fairly wanted things of me I couldn't give. Because I was too afraid. Because I watched my sister vomit red wine all over our bathroom when she was fifteen because our parents found out she had a girlfriend. Because I was far too worried about what people would think of me. I ran away. I went and joined the military and I got deployed and I didn't even tell him I was going to do it. I didn't even have the decency to tell him I loved him." 

Sherlock takes John's hand under the covers, and rubs his thumb over John's knuckles. 

"But you told me," Sherlock says.   
"Yes I did. I love you so much it hurts," John admits, and takes a deep breath. 

"If you've loved me for so long, tell me why you got married," Sherlock says. He's looking away and John knows he didn't want to bring it up, didn't want to ask but just has to _know._  
"Because you broke my fucking heart," John whispers, and buries his face in Sherlock's neck, unsure. "I was a complete and utter mess without you. I keep wondering what would have happened if you had come back and I hadn't met Mary and I was still a complete mess. Because she patched me up, whoever the fuck she was, she put me back together," John admits. He has to laugh just a bit because... "And then you put me back together. After all of it. You're everything."

John knows Sherlock doesn't know what to say. They don't normally do this. Instead, Sherlock kisses him, and John kisses him back.

 

__________

 

Their days feel so much longer suddenly, and maybe that’s because they resolve not to do much without the other. Mostly, there are so many things that change yet stay the same.   
Over the last few weeks, they do many of the same things. They get takeaway and eat it on the sofa with all the lights off, only the telly emitting light. They also put the takeaway down and Sherlock ends up curled into John like a cat. 

Sherlock won’t let John do the shopping alone; that is certainly a change. John expects it will only last a little while, Sherlock will get bored of it. 

But John pushes the cart in Tesco and Sherlock wanders off and then brings back fifteen types of salad dressings they will never use and so John has to talk Sherlock out of it.   
“This is why I never do the shopping,” Sherlock says as he saunters off.  
“That…is very true,” John mutters under his breath.

 

They kiss everywhere. Sherlock is intensely surprised the first time John lays a small kiss on his temple in public. They are out to dinner and John gets up to use the bathroom and after he sets his napkin on the table he quickly kisses Sherlock’s temple.   
When John returns, Sherlock is still staring off into space, blinking every so often.  
“Sherlock, I love you. I don’t care who knows. I want everyone to know,” John says across the table. Sherlock clears his throat, then reaches for his water.   
“Of course,” Sherlock says. 

 

Sherlock won’t leave bed in the morning until he’s kissed John.  
He won’t sleep without it either.   
They spend long hours on the sofa, Sherlock in John’s lap.   
John is always so careful, not wanting to push. He lets Sherlock explore, sometimes a hand pulling his sweaters up. It’s lovely. John can tell Sherlock hasn’t kissed many people, but it makes it all the more splendid. 

 

__________

 

It’s late, but they aren’t ready for bed. The windows are open, and Sherlock has just finished playing his violin for John.   
John has been watching from his chair, and he smiles when Sherlock turns to him.   
“That was beautiful. You’ve been composing.”  
“It was for you,” Sherlock says, flipping the bow in his hand, and then putting the violin down.   
“Thank you.”

Sherlock moves toward John’s chair, then puts his hands in John’s hair and kisses him in full. John returns the kiss and there’s something about this that feels different.   
“John,” Sherlock says softly against his mouth, and he sounds so small it hurts. Sherlock maneuvers himself into John’s lap. His hands are wandering now, and his breath is hitched. He rolls his hips down onto John’s and moans into John’s mouth. It’s amazing.   
“Sherlock,” John says, pulling away, smiling at him, “This is a lot.”  
“Good or bad?” Sherlock asks, his voice low and deep.   
“Very, very good. But I don’t want to go much farther if you’re—“  
“I want you, please,” Sherlock whispers, kissing down John’s neck. “Please,” he says again. He rolls his hips again and John wraps his arms around Sherlock’s waist.   
“Are you sure?” John asks.   
“Okay,” John says.   
As soon as he says so, Sherlock makes for John’s belt, undoing the buckle. John stops him.  
“No, no. We’re doing this right and we’re doing this slowly. I want to take you apart. I want you to feel amazing.”  
Sherlock makes a needy noise in the back of his throat and John laughs just a bit. 

They leave the chair and John kisses Sherlock all the way to the bedroom. 

 

It’s been a long time, but this isn’t something one just forgets how to do. And John has thought about this many times. 

Sherlock is so eager he can hardly lay still. John undoes the buttons of his shirt carefully and Sherlock is trembling.   
“Are you okay?” John asks softly. He rubs his nose into Sherlock’s cheek.   
“Yes.”  
“Because we can stop whenever you want.”  
“Please don’t.”

John runs his hands up and down Sherlock’s bare sides, and he shivers.   
John discovered during their first week together that Sherlock loved for his neck to be kissed. John does this now, and Sherlock bucks into him, a small whine coming out of his mouth.   
“God, I love you,” John says. 

They both undress fully, and John happily crawls down the bed, kissing every part of Sherlock as he does so. He kisses the inside of his thighs for the longest time until Sherlock has given up, nearly incoherent.   
“Please, John, God,” he sputters, and John looks up, and he can’t help the satisfied grin that he knows is plastered across his face.   
Finally he takes Sherlock in his mouth and it doesn’t take long but the way Sherlock says his name makes him feel like he’s finally done something right with his life. 

Sherlock sits up after, and kisses John hard, his tongue pushing into John’s mouth.   
“Are you all right?” John asks.   
“Could you really not tell?” Sherlock says, and John can’t help but laugh.   
“Good.”

Sherlock is kissing his collar bone suddenly, then down his ribcage. John’s heart flutters.   
“You know you don’t have to if you don’t want to,” John says.   
“My God, you’re an idiot. It’s all I’ve been thinking of for weeks,” Sherlock says and John can’t help the groan that comes out. 

John closes his eyes and wonders how he got so lucky. 

 

__________

 

It isn’t always easy.   
It isn’t easy when Lestrade asks them if they want to join him for a pint.   
It isn’t easy when most of Scotland Yard takes them in holding hands together for the first time. John knows Sherlock had been nervous. He’d only held his hand tighter.   
It hadn’t been easy when John had woken up one morning to find Sherlock leaning against the shower, unresponsive for over an hour, the PTSD coming back to life.  
It wasn’t easy when John burned his wedding album and didn’t tell Sherlock he’d done it. 

John wonders how much more pain he could have taken if Sherlock hadn’t loved him back. He tries not to think about it. 

__________

 

"I was going to tell you. On the tarmac. But I decided not to at the last second. Just in case."  
"In case what?"   
"In case you looked back at me and I saw...disgust."

__________

 

They’re in the back of a cab. It’s almost midnight. Sherlock is wired, four cups of coffee down and incredibly close to solving the case.   
They haven’t had a minute to themselves in days, and when they have, Sherlock has been shouting and irritable.   
“I’m so damn close,” Sherlock is muttering under his breath.   
“We are,” John agrees. 

The stoplight changes from red to green. 

Sherlock checks his phone. 

He’s quiet for five minutes. Quieter than he’s been in days. John turns. Sherlock is still staring at his phone blankly.   
“Sherlock?”  
A muscle in Sherlock’s cheek twitches, and then a smile blooms across his face.   
“Happy Anniversary John.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woweeeeeeewooooo just short of a _year_ later.   
>  to those of you who stuck with this for so long: i appreciate you so much. just knowing anyone bothered to read this all the way through, let alone stuck with it for so long is honestly astounding to me.   
> thank you to everyone who commented, gave kudos, and bookmarked. it rly does mean the world. this piece is intensely close to me. it was something i needed to write, so thank you. ur all wonderful. i sort of wanna cry. 
> 
> for more ~soft johnlock~ follow me at loubloomsgirlfriend.tumblr.com
> 
> <3

**Author's Note:**

> basically john watson is everything to me and this is my way of expressing it, please bear with me.


End file.
